


Black Lion, Golden Stag

by witlessmaester



Series: The Storm Prince [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - War of The Five Kings, Canon-Typical Violence, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 08:21:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21714415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witlessmaester/pseuds/witlessmaester
Summary: Steffon Baratheon has changed Westeros with his presence, but the Game has just gotten more dangerous. King Robert travels north to get a Hand and a bride for his son; Steff and Joff contend with the new players in the game all while trying to figure out who might have had Jon Arryn killed. In the North, cold winds stir as ancient foes awaken. To the East, dragons are born in fire as a conquest is planned, and in the South, a king is crowned amidst chaos.On Hiatus
Relationships: Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Harry Potter and Cersei Lannister, Harry Potter and Joffrey Baratheon, Harry Potter and Robert Baratheon, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Robert Baratheon/Cersei Lannister
Series: The Storm Prince [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1565077
Comments: 171
Kudos: 711





	1. The State of Things

**Author's Note:**

> I thought hard about posting this, and then I realized if I didn't set a schedule of sorts for myself that I would probably have kept it on the back burner for months. I'll try very hard to update weekly, most likely Saturday evenings, a week and a half at most if the multiple POVs refuse to cooperate.
> 
> Cheers!

**Catelyn I:**

The entirety of the keep was tense, a sense of dread and fear hanging over them all.

_Dark wings, dark words_ she thought sourly, seeing a raven flying overhead.

Winterfell had spent the past year inundated with ravens, each one bringing more terrible news than the ones before it. Wildlings on the move, attacks in the Gift, children taken at night; all this compounded with the men deserting the Watch, leading Ned to take her sons and guards to serve the King’s Justice.

Then the raven from King’s Landing had come, shattering all sense of hope. She was not overly superstitious, but Catelyn did not like the signs they saw. Her husband – sweet Ned who was always so grim and serious – did not believe in these things, believed only in the things his mind could reason and dismissed the rest as tales to keep unruly children in line.

Jon Arryn was dead. Dead for near two moons now, judging by when they had received that particular raven. Ned had been devastated, his foster father another being taken from him, though he had cheered at the thought of his old friend coming to Winterfell. They had been awaiting the eldest princes, the note the King had sent to Ned said as much before they expected to leave King’s Landing as soon as they returned. The thought of the royal court in Winterfell had thrown them into a flurry, and the bannermen were invited to air their grievances – especially now that the Wildlings had taken to arms.

“Arya!” the shriek came, distracting Catelyn from her dark thoughts as she saw her impish daughter running alongside her wolf. Nymeria was taller than her knee, the direwolf near as tall as Rickon with far too intelligent golden eyes.

“Arya Stark!” she called sharply, glowering at the girl as she ran about in a muddy dress.

Arya’s grey eyes widened, a sullen expression coming over her as she stopped and fidgeted in place. The servants rushed about, weaving around a furious Sansa who had a face streaked with dirt.

“Mother! She is being a complete wretch and ruined my dress!” Sansa shrieked, stomping over to them as she complained of her sister. Bits of mud were on her dress, as well as on the dresses of Sansa’s ladies.

“You deserved it,” Arya muttered, a scowl on her face as she glared at Jeyne Pool. The steward’s daughter stood behind Sansa, a fierce look on her face as she matched Arya’s glare.

Lips tightening, Catelyn stared down at her unruly child, pointing to the keep. “Inside, now. You’ll clean yourself and make your way to Septa Mordane and sit for your lessons until supper. Am I understood?”

Arya opened her mouth to protest before scowling, throwing a heated glare at Sansa as she trudged off to her rooms.

“To your rooms, Sansa. Clean yourself, I’ll come by later,” Catelyn sighed, seeing the scowl on her face as she followed her bidding.

Making her way to the Great Hall, she saw her youngest dashing across the courtyard with his wolf, the two as untameable as ever. The servants were bringing up the final barrels of wine from the cellars, several carrying them to the kitchens. They were expecting King Robert and his family within the week, and Catelyn would not have it said that Winterfell was found lacking.

It was as she ordered the chandelier cleaned that Luwin found her. He came to her, heavy chains clinking with his steps as he pulled a small scroll from his furs.

_Will these messages never cease?_ She wondered in despair.

“A raven from The Eyrie, my lady,” he told her, handing it out for her perusal.

“My sister?” she questioned, walking to make her way to the closest brazier. Ned had told her she and her son had returned to the comfort of the Vale after Jon’s death and she worried for her; she had only her boy left to her, and the Lords of the Vale would be angling to earn some power during Robin’s regency.

She unfurled the scroll, sweeping her eyes over the familiar script and felt the blood drain from her face.

_Oh Lysa,_ she thought, hands tightening on the small scroll.

“Have the men returned?”

“Not yet, my lady. Lord Stark should return within a few hours. The deserter was found near Tumbledown and brought closer to Winterfell,” Luwin informed her. “We’ve also received a raven from Castle Cerwyn. It seems the King’s party has made good time – their scouts estimate that they should be here within the next two days. Three, if the King stays a night in Cerwyn.”

“And bring them into our home,” she murmured, eyes staring blankly into the fire.

“My lady?” Luwin questioned, brow furrowed in curiosity.

She waved him off with a strained smile, certain she was not fooling him though he was too polite to say so. “The Cerwyns will join the King’s party most like. Have someone ensure the rooms are fully prepared for our guests, maester. I must check on the girls.”

She left him in the Great Hall as she wandered to the family wing. Arya was like to keep sulking, she knew, and nothing Catelyn said would get to the girl. Ten namedays and she already held such scorn for her station, and Catelyn veered off toward Sansa’s rooms instead.

Her eldest daughter was sitting at her vanity; a fresh gown of pale blue while her hair was loose and slightly damp, Lady seated near her. Of all the direwolves, it was Sansa’s that was the most behaved even if she was near as large as the others. Tully blue eyes locked onto hers, and Catelyn smiled as she took up the brush, running the bristles through Sansa’s red hair.

“And what was it, that caused you and your sister to fight again?”

Sansa scowled, eyes darkening in anger. “She is a monster, Mother. Arya will embarrass us!”

_The Princes_, she thought ruefully, remembering the arguments the children had over the two eldest sons of King Robert.

“You must not fight with your sister, sweetling,” Catelyn told her, smoothing a hand over Sansa’s shoulder. “The court will be here, and you would not like to shame yourselves, hmm?”

Sansa fidgeted slightly before stilling, gaze turned to her through the reflection. “Mother,” she said lightly. “Do you know what King Robert is coming North for?”

_A Hand and a bride_, she thought in dismay. Sansa would make a lovely princess, was born to be a queen though the Northerners doubtless wished to wed their heirs to her. Her little girl had been a lady at just three namedays and at two and ten was like to flower into a beautiful woman.

“I do not,” she told her instead, braiding the red hair into a crown. “Doubtless the King wishes to see your father and renew his alliance with the North.”

Sansa beamed at her, eyes glazed in thought. “Prince Joffrey was knighted just two moons past,” she said, “and Prince Steffon is said to be his brother’s equal with a sword. The youngest knights of the realm for over a century!”

Smiling, Catelyn let Sansa’s words wash over her as she thought on what was coming to her House. Direwolves found with a broken antler near it, scheming Lannisters, and the possibility of Sansa as queen.

There was no other they could choose, that much she knew. Robert’s children were born of a Lannister, and there were no other maidens of age other than the Martell heiress and the Tyrell girl – two kingdoms he would never give his sons to.

“Sweetling,” Catelyn interrupted, hearing the horses and the shouts of the men. “It’s nearly time for supper.”

“Of course Mother,” Sansa replied, standing to bring her wolf to the kennels. Catelyn pressed a kiss to her forehead, the two making their way to the Great Hall. Already, the men were preparing to sit; Ned was present with their sons and his bannermen, Arya slinking in from the table that held the bastard.

Years she had had to suffer the presence of Jon Snow in her home, amongst her trueborn children. No matter that she had raised all manner of argument with Ned, her lord husband refused to see sense when it came to the boy.

_He is now six and ten_, she reminded herself. _A man grown and like to head to the Wall as soon as he can, Ned’s approval or not._

She sat for dinner, ignoring the boy sat at the lower tables as Ned pressed lightly on her hand, the scroll burning through her dress.

“Are you well Cat?” he asked lowly, grey eyes soft with concern. She flicked her eyes once more to the bastard, before looking at her husband, his eyes turning to steel at what he saw. He turned to Jon Umber, the giant lord's booming voice keeping Ned occupied for most of the dinner.

She sat impatiently for the rest of supper, her courtesies on full display as she waited for the plates to clear. Robb and Daryn Hornwood were chattering lightly in their corner surrounded by the heirs of the North, Bran whispering with Arya over their journey. It was not his first time seeing a man executed for desertion, and Brandon had become accustomed to the sight, as frequent as they had been the past two years.

It felt like hours before they had finished, the guards standing to relieve the others as servants bustled about clearing the plates.

“There was a raven,” she murmured as they stood to leave. Ned’s eyes flashed with steel, an almost silent plea for good news that she was sad to have to break.

He steered her toward his solar, where Luwin awaited them. More scrolls were held in his hands, and Catelyn felt a flash of irritation at the sight of them.

“My lord,” Luwin began, an almost apologetic look in his eyes. “These just arrived from the Wall.”

Ned sat behind his desk, Catelyn falling into the seat across from him as Maester Luwin handed him the scrolls.

“Lord Commander Mormont reports increased sightings of Wildings for the past fortnight,” Ned told them, eyes scanning the scroll before he broke the seal of the other two. “Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower,” he murmured. “They report the same. Wildling activity has increased in the past sennight – closer to a fortnight.”

“More Wildlings on the move?” she questioned.

He leaned back in his seat, hand covering his beard as he stared at the fire. “Robert will want me to be his Hand, but I cannot leave the North at this time. Not with things progressing as they are.”

She shared a look with Luwin, though the maester looked as if he might agree with Ned.

“This is unsettling,” Luwin replied, “and certainly a matter to bring before the King.”

“Robert would probably want to hunt them himself,” Ned chuckled. His smile was a small thing, face more grim in light of the news they had received.

“Will you inform your bannermen?”

“I shall have to. Especially with Karhold and Last Hearth so close to the Wall,” Ned replied.

She closed her eyes, knowing her words would cause him to go south. She did not want Ned in the capital – nor anywhere near Lannisters – but she wanted him battling Wildings even less.

“There was a letter from The Eyrie,” Catelyn said, pulling their attention. “Lysa wrote that Jon Arryn…she says the Lannisters killed him.”

Silence filled the room at her statement, and Catelyn stared at Ned as he hid behind his mask of stoicism.

“My lady,” Luwin began nervously, a slight waver to his voice before he cleared his throat. “Are you certain o—”

“The letter was in my sister’s hand. Ned,” she said, turning to her husband. “Lysa would not lie, not with something such as this. It was written using the code we had made as girls.”

“My lady, to accuse the Lannisters – the Queen’s family at that – of treason is a grievous claim and one they are not like to take lightly,” Luwin responded.

The flames cast shadows on Ned’s face, and Catelyn saw his eyes harden. “Lannisters,” he said stiffly, face drained of colour. “Gods, Robert is surrounded by them…shares a bed and children with a Lannister. If they killed Jon…”

“Lord Stark,” Maester Luwin cut in.

“No, Luwin,” Ned said firmly. “Robert is my brother in all but blood. I cannot leave him at the mercy of the Lannisters. I’ve already seen what they consider mercy.”

His face had darkened at the thoughts racing through his head, and Catelyn bowed her head in fear and prayed for them all.

_Mother have mercy, keep watch over my family_.

“What will you do?” she asked, though she feared she already knew the answer.

“I cannot state your sisters claims,” Ned told her, eyes locked on hers. “Not without evidence behind it. Not without understanding just _why_ the Lannisters would wish Jon Arryn dead.”

“You will go to King’s Landing,” she stated.

“Aye, I will go. I’ll be Robert’s hand and do as I must to bring the Lannisters to justice,” he confirmed.

“And the princes, my lord?” Luwin questioned. Seeing the puzzled look they sent him he elaborated, “They are reportedly very close to their mother’s House, Ser Wendel has made mention of their rapport with their uncle Lord Tyrion.”

Lips tightening, Ned nodded slowly. “Yes, I recall. Lord Tyrion signed as witness for several of Prince Steffon’s declarations.”

“Surely you do not think them aware?” Catelyn asked aghast.

“They were not there when Lord Arryn passed, nor do I believe they might have been aware, my lady. It is simply something to consider; the heir to the throne is not like to appreciate the accusations of treason against his maternal House,” Luwin replied, a look of worry on his face.

“Treason aided is still treason,” Ned murmured, face pinched as he thought on Luwin’s words. “I will go south. You will both remain with Robb. He is six and ten – old enough to perform the duties of the lord with your guidance. Jon—”

Scowling fiercely she sharply stated, “He will _not_ remain here.”

“Catelyn,” Ned said, a note of resignation in his voice.

“Your son he may be, my lord, but he is not of my blood and I will not be made to suffer his presence any longer,” she retorted, face flushed in fury at the thought of Jon Snow prancing around Winterfell, coveting what was not his to covet.

“He is of my blood, he is the blood of the Starks. Winterfell will always be open to him,” Ned countered. His eyes had remained the cold ice she was accustomed to seeing when he donned the mask of the Warden of the North.

“Young Jon is a man grown, Lord Stark,” Luwin interjected calmly. “It can do no harm to speak to the boy of it.”

“Aye, he is,” Ned responded. “He has made plain his wish to join the Watch, especially in the past year with the increased raids. I will speak with him on the morrow, and we will decide together. I’ll not hear more of it until I speak with the boy.”

* * *

**Daenerys I:**

They led her to Drogo’s tent, the sand of the Red Waste whipping viciously against them as if they had offended the gods. The khalasar had been uneasy at the stillness coming from Drogo, muttering curses at the Lhazareen maegi for her actions. Once, they had been thousands strong, and Daenerys was left with many of the women and children.

“Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah said lowly before she could enter, “mayhaps we should prepare to leave. The khalasar is not like to—”

“I’ll not leave my husband to suffer alone Ser,” she told him sharply, purple eyes glinting with determination as she gleaned his meaning. “Not when Drogo has been harmed by mine enemies.”

“Forgive me, Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah rumbled, bowing in acceptance.

Striding past him, Daenerys entered the tent ignoring the woman sat in the corner, hands bound and mouth gagged to keep her from sprouting her foul hatred.

“Khaleesi,” Irri said, a slightly wary look on her face.

“Rakharo,” Daenerys called, staring down at the lifeless eyes of her husband. Drogo’s eyes had gleamed with fierceness, not this half-life the woman had consigned him to. The copper-skinned warrior entered the tent, a glare of loathing shot at the woman. “Prepare the funeral pyre.”

“Khaleesi,” he muttered, making his way outside to do as she required.

“Leave us,” she ordered Irri, a hand on Drogo’s head. Her sun-and-stars had never been so still in the time she had known him. Drogo’s copper-skin was paler than usual, black eyes staring blankly up at her. Daenerys took hold of a pillow, placing a soft kiss on his mouth.

“Ride through the night lands, my sun-and-stars, and conquer the stars with our son at your side. They shall pay for what they have done,” she murmured, before placing the pillow on his mouth for several long moments, holding it in place even after she felt the life leave him.

Placed next to Drogo was a small crib; Rhaego’s pale body lay unnaturally still within, skin pale as his fathers. Someone had closed his eyes; the blank purple orbs no longer haunting her as they had done in the days after his birth.

It had all been too soon; Viserys had proven himself a fool, her dear brother so convinced he was the dragon that would return their throne. All he had been given was a gold crown, a just reward for daring to lay a hand on her. She did not mourn him, the weak man he had become, but a part of Daenerys cried for the young boy who had once told her stories of Westeros.

“Khaleesi, it is ready,” Rakharo told her as he entered with her kos, an uneasy look on his face.

She turned then to the woman in the corner. “Take the witch, she should prove of use.”

Daenerys saw the maegi’s eyes widen and a smile came to her for the first time since she felt Rhaego die as he entered the world.

_Only death can pay for life, _she remembered the maegi telling her, nodding for Rakharo to do as she requested.

The woman was dragged outside, Jhogo and Aggo taking hold of Drogo’s body as they hefted him to the pyre. Daenerys walked to the crib, arms reaching for her son. Rhaego had the colour of his father, with silky black hair that curled at the ends as hers did, the features of Old Valyria stamped on his face alongside the streak of silver in his hair. He would have been the Stallion-That-Mounted-The-World; Rhaego, the greatest of the sons of Valyria, would have propelled them to new heights, would have made the world tremble in awe of her dragon.

She lifted the small babe, walking outside to see what remained of her khalasar waiting for her. Ser Jorah was stood closest, and Daenerys ignored the man as she ordered him to bring her trunk forward.

Walking across the dusty field, Daenerys climbed the pyre and placed Rhaego on his father’s chest, lifting Drogo’s hand to hold the child.

Blinking furiously, Daenerys ignored the burning feel of her eyes as she stared at what had remained of her family.

_And now I remain the last_, she thought, _a dragon alone to show the world her wrath_.

They would pay – Baratheon, Lannister, and Stark. The Usurper and his dogs had killed her husband, had poisoned Drogo so he could not bring the wrath of the Targaryens to them. They had woken the dragon, and Daenerys vowed on her family’s remains that she would see them brought to heel for all they had done.

There was a pull, a sudden need in Daenerys and she made her way to the trunk Jorah had brought out. Dany lifted the lid, her eyes lingering on the three eggs.

_Only death can pay for life_, she thought, certain that her dream of dragons meant something more than simple wants.

She lifted the three eggs, each warm to the touch, and carried them to what remained of her. The black egg with red swirls she placed on Drogo’s heart, curling Rhaego’s body around the egg as she would have had he lived. The green and bronze egg went beside his head, the cream and gold one next to her son, surrounding her little dragon with the proof of his heritage.

“Bind her to the pyre,” she ordered, walking down to grip the torch. Mirri Maz Dur was flailing, twisting in an attempt to flee before Rakharo struck her across the face and tied her to the pyre.

She waited only until Rakharo had cleared the area before lighting the fire; the maegi’s squirms blocked by the rapidly growing flames.

The air was rent with the witch’s screams, the gag not proving enough to muffle the horrid sounds. The fire crackled, the fierce heat a soothing tickle for her.

_Fire cannot kill a dragon_, she thought.

It took the others a split second to realize her intentions, but they were too late to do more than scream in horror as Daenerys entered the pyre, the flames flaring brighter as she walked in.

Visions danced in the flame, and for a moment Daenerys feared she was in the grip of madness.

_“Burn them all!” a man with stringy hair screeched, purple eyes wild with madness. “Burn them in their homes and their beds, burn the traitors as they come. Let them have a city of ashes!”_

_“A crown of gold for a king with no home,” Drogo said, upending the pot onto Viserys’s head._

_“Dany!” her brother cried, falling to his knees as he clawed fruitlessly at the molten liquid._

_“Will you write him a song?” a woman asked, abed with a small child held to her chest. Tufts of silvery-gold hair were visible, and Daenerys imagined the small child to have purple eyes. The woman had dark hair, black eyes staring at a tall man with pale silvery-gold hair stood by the window, dark purple eyes filled with melancholy. There was sadness clinging to his shoulders as if a cloak, long fingers lightly strumming a quiet tune on a beautiful harp._

_“He has a song. He is the Prince Who Was Promised, and his is the Song of Ice and Fire,” the man replied as he looked straight at Daenerys. _Rhaegar_, she thought, violet eyes locked onto his eyes of dark indigo._

_There was a sharp twist in the flame before it showed another babe, this one black of hair with glowing green eyes. The face grew in the flames until she saw a man, tall and muscular with a curved scar across his face, the same green eyes glowing with untold power as a crown of gold sat in his black curls. There was a sudden shriek, a flock of birds flying in panic as a large shadow fell over him._

_Flames grew, a fire surrounding a black stag as roses clumped around a green-tinted stag._

_“The Iron Throne is mine by rights,” a man screamed, a pair of lords knelt at his feet._

_Daenerys suddenly found herself soaring, a giant wall of ice rising from the sky. Blood trickling down, as it seemed to weep, a blue flower growing from a chink in the wall._

_There was a cloth dragon, the high walls of a red keep in the background as the dragon swayed on poles amongst the cheers of the crowd tangled in webs._

_Black flames drew her attention, the fire battling with red streaks as a city burned bright beneath._

_A white flag covered her vision, blood staining the field as an army watched on._

_There was a wolf howling in pain, a lioness circling as a golden stag attacked._

_The flames shifted, bells swaying in the wind overtop a graveyard._

_There was a falcon choking, a mockingbird taking flight to soaring heights._

_The flames shifted once more, and Daenerys felt a sudden chill in the flames as ice blue eyes stared malevolently at her, the creature’s horns forming a crown of ice as it headed a massive army._

Daenerys did not know how long she had stood in the pyre, the visions gripping her, until at last the flames had died down.

It was dawn, the hour of the nightingale finished as the sky was streaked with a sudden light. Standing carefully, Dany felt the creatures cling tightly to her, one nursing at her breast as the other two rested on her shoulders.

They were the exact colour of their eggs; green and bronze, cream and gold, and the last a deep black, striking patterns of red swirling throughout.

Daenerys walked out of the pyre, her khalasar in awe as they bent the knee as one.

“Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah murmured.

She stared at them all, hand idly stroking the dragon in her hand.

“Rise Ser Jorah,” she ordered. “Your queen has need of you.”

Jorah bowed as Daenerys stood, uncaring of her nakedness, the three dragons living proof of her destiny. Soon, Westeros would see the return of House Targaryen.

“How may I serve, Khaleesi?”

She turned her gaze westward, an endless desert as far as the eye could see. To their south and east lay the Red Waste, she remembered, and Daenerys had no wish to bring her people through that. She had dragons, and she needed meat to feed them so they may grow strong.

“Prepare the horses, Ser,” she told him, coming to a decision. “We head west.”

Overhead, a red comet streaked across, the sky covered in the image of blood.

* * *

**Steffon I:**

They were camped along the Barrowlands when Steffon felt it.

He had taken his first step into the North at The Neck and felt a deep, underlying power. Different from Dragonstone, something ancient and wild that called to him. It reminded him a bit of Storm’s End, and Steffon recalled the tale of how Durran had raised his keep with the help of a Northman.

They were sleeping in the open, tents settled and a watch set as the queen muttered foul obscenities for having to suffer such a fate.

The North was a frigid place; the weather cool and Steffon had been amazed to see summer snows. Scotland, as cold as it had been in Harry’s memories of winter, did not see snow during such time. Though they also did not suffer such odd seasons.

It was as he slept – for once his dreams free of horrible possibilities – that he felt a slow stirring.

His magic had been more active since they entered the North, a sort of loosening of the chains that had held it at bay. He had slept with a slight tingle beneath his skin, the warm feel of his magic responding to an unknown call.

At once, the stirring had turned painful; Steffon had felt it increase at night until he was now thrashing in pain, a fierce pressure on his chest as he felt the build-up of untouched magic.

It was as if a chain had suddenly snapped, no more of the slow loosening he had become accustomed to. A sudden surge flowed through him, skin crackling as the candles in his tent flared brightly all at once. Spots of light danced behind his eyes, and he groaned in pleasure as the pressure suddenly receded, magic dancing along his skin.

Shouts cut through the air, the guards in terrified awe as he heard several break out into hushed prayers.

“What’s going o—Mother have mercy, what is that?”

Steffon stirred from his cot, the furs falling to the ground as he sluggishly stumbled to the desk within. His hand knocked over a candle, the wood catching fire, and Steffon was alarmed to find he felt pleasant warmth from the hot wax and _the flames that were caressing his hand_.

On the verge of hysteria, Steff blew hard on the flame, determined to ignore the last two candles as he struggled to shrug on his tunic. Vaguely, he noticed that the cold did not bother him as much anymore, inner warmth radiating and he ruthlessly shoved that thought aside.

_That way leads madness_, he thought uneasily.

He threw on a cloak, fingers fumbling sluggishly in his haste to tie a knot as he made his way outside to see what had the guards in a snit.

_Fucking hell_, he thought in fear. It looked like a comet, had all the hallmarks of those he had learned about as a boy in another life, but this one wasn’t the colour of light.

It was red, bright and eerie, a stark contrast to the lightening sky. It looked like fresh blood had split the sky, and Steffon could easily see why they were so awestruck.

It was beautiful. It looked deadly. Steffon had the sudden feeling that the comet meant nothing good for them.

Joff had woken at some point, staring oddly at the sky.

“They say comets are a sign of dragons,” Joff told him quietly, a queer tone in his voice.

“Where would you have heard that?” he asked lightly, ignoring the churning in his gut as his mind drifted to the flames from his tent.

_Dragons_, he thought darkly. He had known of the Targaryen dragons, had dreamed as a child of once more riding a dragon – though this time with hope to enjoy the flight instead of fear for their lives.

But there were two Targaryens in the world, and if the comet heralded dragons Steffon prayed that they did not survive the first year.

_Let them stay as small as the Dragonbane’s creatures, lest they turn their gaze westward_, he prayed.

“Uncle Tyrion heard it from a Tyroshi sellsword,” Joff told him, green eyes blazing beneath the light.

“Ah, yes. I did, didn’t I?”

Tyrion waddled over to them, mismatched eyes bright as he stared above. “I’ve always wanted to ride a dragon,” he murmured lowly.

“Don’t let the king hear you,” Joff told him, eyes darting across to see whether Robert had stirred from his sleep, warhammer in hand as if to smite any mention of dragons. “Like as not you’ll be short a head for such thoughts.

“Perish the thought should that happen,” Tyrion quipped. “I imagine a good many people would collapse at the sight.”

Steff felt his lips quirk up in a humourless smile.

Fear clawed at him. He should have been happy; his magic returned at a time when things were becoming more dangerous. Yet all he felt was dread at the portents.

“Get some rest,” he murmured to Joffrey, turning his gaze on his brother. Joff himself looked solemn, face serious as he realized the potential ramifications. “Father will want to ride out soon.”

Steffon lingered outside, eyes tracing the comet before he returned to his tent.

He made his way to the travel desk holding the two candles, blowing out the first. Hesitantly, Steffon held his hand out and pressed a finger into the flame, awe and terror warring within him as he saw it dance across his skin.

It felt warm, pleasant to the touch, as his skin remained smooth and unburnt. Bringing his hand to his eyes, Steffon did not see even the pinking of skin that preceded a burn, and he felt only terror at the thought of what it all meant.

A sudden breeze blew out the remaining candle, and Steffon threw himself on his cot, eyes staring blankly as he thought on his family.

_Princess Rhaelle Targaryen, wife to Ormund, mother of Steffon, grandmother of Robert, Stannis and Renly_.

Was it possible? Could the blood of his Valyrian ancestors have done this?

He knew the tales, the old stories his father did not want them to learn. Visenya Targaryen had been a mage. Aegon the Conqueror had flown a dragon from Valyria. Countless Targaryens touched with magic, with the fire and blood of Valyria.

_Orys Baratheon had the blood of Valyria_, he recalled, his many greats grandfather having been the natural son of Aerion Targaryen. Targaryens and Velaryons had intermarried with House Baratheon.

He fell into a fitful sleep, his dreams plagued with thoughts of fire and blood and the fury of his father should his heir show such Targaryen tendencies.

* * *

They saw Winterfell as they crested the final hill.

Father had forced them to set out early, Steffon barely sleeping before Tommen had come crashing into his bed with a shrill wake-up call, the younger boy laughing himself hoarse as Steffon fell to the floor in surprise. It seemed the further North they travelled, the more excited the king became at the prospect of seeing his oldest friend.

They had been met with an honour guard as they prepared to leave Castle Cerwyn, wolf banners flapping in the air as a company of twenty man sidled up beside them. Jory Cassel had led them, his guards falling in front of the Kingsguard knights and the retinue that had come north with the royal family.

Cella had agreed to remain in the wheelhouse with their mother after she saw the keep, and Steff and Joff chased Myrcella and Tommen across the field, horses galloping at full speed as Ser Arys and Ser Preston cursed and tried to keep up. They had kept their knights busy, the four of them riding along the vast lands of the North to keep warm.

“Come on Tom,” Joff called back. “You don’t want to miss your first look do you?”

Laughing, Myrcella came to a stop next to Steff, her brown mare eager to ride more. “It’s massive,” she said, green eyes wide as they had their first look at Winterfell.

It was a fortress, no doubt about that, and Steffon could see some similarities between Winterfell and Storm’s End.

“It’s bigger than the Red Keep,” Tommen said awed, the sight of the sprawling keep enthralling him.

Winterfell was a large complex of keeps, he had been told, and he could see the many turrets to show it. It wasn’t as tall as the Red Keep, built more wide to encompass a greater amount of land. It was a stout fortress, and Steff had no difficulty imagining how hard it would be to take this particular castle.

“Riders!” A guard shouted, Lord Stark’s men preparing to lead them down.

“Princess, you must make your way to the wheelhouse,” Ser Arys cut in.

The siblings turned as one, a slight narrowing of her eyes before Myrcella agreed. “Mother is going to have a fit when she sees my hair,” Cella said, and the boys smirked in agreement. She looked windswept, pristine but for the flyaway hairs.

“No doubt she’ll lay the blame with us,” Joff told her lightly, and Steffon was glad to see the glint of humour in his eyes. Joffrey had finally squashed any unease when around their mother, though Steffon knew the boy had not forgiven her.

“Alas, duty calls sister,” Steff exaggerated, a hand smacking her filly’s rump as Myrcella shot him a glare of annoyance, Ser Preston riding after her.

“Come on Tommen, we’ll have to get in position.”

They raced the short distance to the king; Ser Jaime was mounted on his horse in front as Ser Arys rode to his place.

“Make yourselves presentable,” the king ordered, looking around to see that everything was prepared. Steffon glared at Joff, the boy’s face a mask of innocence as he grinned at him. It would be another twenty minutes ride to Winterfell, thirty if the wheelhouse did not cooperate, and Steffon straightened Tommen’s doublet in preparation.

“Ready little brother?” he asked.

Tommen nodded anxiously, green eyes worried. It was his first time travelling so far, and to a place other than Casterly Rock, but he was determined to do his part.

“Just smile,” Joff told him, green eyes amused. “They’ll be more focused on Steff anyways.”

He tousled the boy’s golden hair, a slight smile on Tommen’s face before they lined up behind the king, Steffon directly behind his father with a brother on either side.

Shouts rang out across the line, the retinue falling into place as the Northerners led them to the gates.

They rode in silence, the wind whipping frigid air in their face. Steff saw Tommen shudder slightly and could just make out the slight curse that left Joffrey’s mouth.

“Open the gates for the king!” Jory Cassel called as they approached, the guards on the ramparts shouting down orders as the gears turned.

They rode through Wintertown, lines of smallfolk bowing at the sight of King Robert and his sons. There were guardsmen stood closer to the entrance to the keep, their heraldry showing the various houses of the North. The crowned stag flapped in the wind alongside the grey direwolf, the lion of Lannister nowhere to be seen in the king’s retinue.

The final gates had been opened, and as they rode through Steffon saw his first glimpse of House Stark and the North.

They were all kneeling in the courtyard, and his father positively leapt of his horse, crown crooked on his head in his haste to greet his friend. Turning, he saw that the monstrous wheelhouse his mother insisted on did not make it past the gates, a group of red cloaks hastening to bring the queen forward.

Smirking lightly, Steff saw the similar expression on Joff’s face as Myrcella trotted forward. She sent them a smile full of smug satisfaction, though she had rode side saddle for the nonce.

A groom hurried forward as they saw Ned Stark rise, the rest of his household following. Lord Stark was tall and broad, every bit a Northerner with long brown hair and a long face, a beard present on his face. His wife looked every inch a Southroner; tall and lithe with red hair and blue eyes, her children all favoured her look but for a single child with the Stark colouring and features.

Unbidden, Steffon felt a twinge of relief at the sight of Tully-looking Stark children; Ned Stark would be Hand of the King, and Steffon meant to give him no cause to look too closely at his family.

The king and his friend stared at each other for a long moment before Robert said, “You’ve got fat.”

Steffon felt Tommen shift at the comment, and he bit his cheek to keep from laughing as Ned Stark raised an eyebrow, eyes glancing at the king’s own belly.

A great laugh erupted from his father, the man rushing forward to hug his foster brother and greet the rest of the Starks. The Stark’s bannermen were arrayed around them, the lords and heirs of the Northern houses present in full force as Steff noticed Ser Wylis stood with what must be his father.

Steffon swung down from his horse, handing the reins of Twitch to a stablehand as he saw Tommen get down, his little brother moving closer to him.

“Time to greet the Starks,” Joffrey muttered, Myrcella on his arm as Mother strode forward.

Steffon held his arm out and felt her slide her arm in, a quick glance from her to make sure they were presentable – though she looked a _bit_ miffed at Cella – before they faced the Starks as one.

“Your Graces,” Lord Stark said, bowing and placing a kiss on Mother’s knuckle as she held her hand out.

Cersei’s smile was entirely false, and the cool dislike from Eddard Stark palpable as the man looked at her. His wife stood stiffly next to her, and Steffon resisted the urge to glance at Joffrey.

Father stood next to his friend, a beaming smile on his face as he introduced them.

“My eldest sons, Steffon and Joffrey,” he said, a meaty hand landing on his shoulder as he felt Robert’s pride. “Joff has just been knighted, a moon before we made our way here.”

Joffrey was preening slightly, a smile of satisfaction on his face as Robert boasted of his young knight.

“This little beauty is Myrcella, and that young knight-to-be is Tommen,” Father said, the pride in his voice evident.

They were polite enough, Lord Stark seemingly genuine as he greeted Steff and his siblings, a rare smile for Myrcella and Tommen gracing his face, but he couldn’t help the sense of unease that swept through him.

Winterfell did not feel welcoming; Steff had felt the ancient magic in the North, felt it keenly in these walls, but the people held a frostiness to them. Perhaps it was the way of the North and their cold, but his instincts were screaming at him and he was not enough of a fool to ignore it.

“Come Ned, I would pay my respects,” Father ordered, turning to make his way to the Crypts of Winterfell as the entirety of the North and the members of Robert’s court watched on.

Steff felt his mother stiffen, her arm tightening slightly on his own as a smile graced her features. “My love, we have been riding for over a moon. Surely the dead can wait?”

Steff kept his face blank as Father ignored her words, certain that Joff and Cella were doing the same on his other side as several eyes flicked to them, searching for weakness.

Robb Stark looked uncomfortable, aware of whom the king wished to visit, but the boy was unwilling and smart enough not to say anything. His eldest sister had been staring prettily at Joffrey, and Steffon noted that, of them all, his brother might have the easiest time. _The bloody prick_, he thought.

Ned Stark looked apologetically at them before following after his father, and Lady Stark swiftly hurried them inside as the Northern Lords dispersed.

“Perhaps we shall settle your household, Your Graces,” she said, gesturing for them to follow her inside.

Steffon kept a tight hold on his mother’s arm, a glower from him keeping Joff silent, as they were lead into the halls of the keep.

* * *

**The Lost Lord I:**

The sky had been split for near a sennight.

Unbidden, his thoughts turned to the words his Silver Prince had told him all those years ago.

_“It shall be him. The Promised Prince, the one to wake the dragons.”_

His eyes closed briefly in grief, anger and sadness warring within him as it did for the past ten and six years. He shook off his melancholy, making his way to the deck so as to look for the boy.

They were in Chroyane, _The Shy Maid_ anchored along the banks of the Rhoyne for some time. It was tedious business, leaving anchor wherever they desired so as to keep safe, and Griff did not like the thought of lingering here for so long. Two moons was long enough to be suspicious, and the last thing he wanted was suspicion.

There was laughter ringing on board as the elderly couple watched their boy spar with duck on the banks of Mother Rhoyne, the septa stood beside them, hair covered in her pale robes.

“Any word?” Lemore asked, her dark eyes flicking quickly to his face.

“Little birds have been flitting about,” he said, watching with blue eyes as a tall and lithe youth with blue hair beat back his instructor.

_He has improved_, he thought, watching his footwork as he danced around Duck. Griff waited for their spar to finish, eyes following the swing of the sword as the boy grew impatient and mistimed a strike, Duck punishing him with a rib rattling smack. He watched as the boy’s swings grew quicker, sword flashing as he parried a blow before forcing Duck on the back heel, a flashy riposte disarming the taller knight.

_He fights like his father_, he thought, wistfully remembering the last time he had seen his prince spar. It was like travelling to the past, watching over Aegon as he had; the boy shared in his father’s looks and fighting style, though he had none of the melancholy Rhaegar was known for.

Yandry and Ysilla cheered them on, the head of blue turning his way as he bowed to them.

Griff waited for the boy to come over a light sheen of swear coating his face as he greeted Lemore before turning to him.

“You are much improved,” he told him, watching as Aegon straightened in muted pride.

“Thank you, Father,” he murmured in response, eyes flicking to the scroll held in his hand.

Lips tightening at the thought of the scroll held in his hand, Griff turned sharply toward Haldon’s cabin, knowing the others would follow after him. Haldon was petering within, moving about tinctures and other remedies he had prepared in case of accident.

“Griff,” Haldon greeted, straightening at the sight of the other’s entering after him. “What word?”

“The Spider sent his little birds,” Griff stated bluntly, watching as their eyes widened in anticipation. “Jon Arryn died two moons past.”

“A cause for celebration,” Aegon stated, face brightening at the thought of one of the Usurper’s dogs dead.

“Not quite,” Griff cut in, halting the boy’s exuberance. “Arryn may be dead, but the spider writes that Ned Stark is to be the next Hand.”

Griff scowled fiercely at the thought, recognizing the many issues that would present. Ned Stark was fiercely loyal to his friend, the most fervent of the Usurper’s supporters. _Those damned Starks_, he thought darkly.

It had all gone wrong when they decided to leave their backwoods lands and join the rest of society. Westeros had been relatively peaceful, had merely awaited the rise of the one who was sure to be the greatest of Dragon Kings. And it had all fallen apart when the Starks entered the game.

“Ned Stark is one man,” Aegon scowled in return.

“One man with a kingdom behind him and ties to two others,” Haldon rebuked, reminding Aegon of his lessons.

“Haldon is right,” Griff bitterly stated.

“What does the Spider want?” Lemore asked.

“Westeros is on the brink of war, one sure to come as soon as Stark enters the game,” Griff told them, recalling the words he had read. “We are to prepare ourselves.”

Aegon held a hand out for the scroll, and Griff handed it over with only the slightest bit of reluctance. The boy was seven and ten – eight and ten in a few moons – and would be old enough to rule on his own merit. It was for the best that they further prepare him for the role.

_I’ll not fail the son as I have the father_, he promised himself.

A dark look came across his face as Griff knew it would when he read the words written. “The Usurper’s son knighted at three and ten,” he said queerly. “The singers are sure to be clamouring to write of this feat.”

“A minor setback,” Duck murmured, glancing hesitantly at Aegon’s dark face.

“War will still come, whether the Usurper’s sons are prepared for it or not,” Griff reminded him.

“How does he suppose the war will begin?” Haldon asked, his mind most likely whirring over the many possibilities.

Lips curling in disgust he said, “War is what happens whenever these Starks come south. Mark my words, Ned Stark will start another war.”

“And Ned Stark holds the North and is married to the Riverlands,” Aegon said, eyes staring blankly at the scroll.

“A better chance for war,” Haldon interjected. “The North will follow the Starks wherever they lead, and the Riverlands will be beholden to their agreements.”

“The Lannisters?” Lemore asked, gaze fixed on Griff.

“There is no love between the Lannisters and the Starks,” Griff replied, sure that neither oath-breaking House would ever willingly ally with one another. Not after the Rebellion had been won.

“How do we know they won’t make common cause?” Aegon asked, eyes locked onto his.

“Stark is loyal to the Usurper,” Haldon agreed. “And his children are Lannisters as well.”

“That’s exactly why they will not make common cause,” Griff pressed. “I like it not, but if the Spider is to be believed, than the Usurper’s Lannister children will be the cause for contention.”

“Presume the war does break occur as we expect, what are we to do in the meantime?” Duck asked as he leaned nonchalantly against the wall.

“Myr. We have a company to meet,” Griff stated, grimacing at the thought of what awaited them.

Bad enough he had to fake his death and dishonour, but as he looked once more upon the boy, he reminded himself of why he was doing all of this.

_For Rhaegar_, he told himself. _For Aegon, the Prince Who Was Promised_.

The others trudged outside, going back to their duties though Lemore left them with a lingering look.

Griff waited for the boy to speak, pleased that his lessons on caution was seeping into his tempestuous charge.

“This will not be an easy war,” Aegon finally said, seating himself on the table as he gripped a coin tightly.

“No, I expect it will not, though we will of course wait until they have exhausted themselves.”

“An uneven war,” Aegon said, lips twisting in distaste.

“A necessary precaution,” Griff snapped, seeing the expression in his eyes. “Do not be a fool, boy. Steffon Baratheon and his brother may be skilled knights, but there is no need to throw yourself headlong into battle with them. Do no—”

“—not be my father?” Aegon questioned. “I’ve no intention of losing this war against the Usurper’s son.”

“I will not allow for another Trident,” he hissed at Aegon, wanting to shake the boy until some sense returned to him.

It was a madness in him; since the first scroll had arrived informing them of the feats of Steffon Baratheon, Aegon had been determined to best the boy at everything. The younger boy had all the benefits of a royal upbringing, but Griff was certain Aegon would be the better king.

_He has to be_, he thought desperately, recalling the countless hours they had poured into the boy.

“You did not mention my aunt to the others,” he said.

“There was no need,” Griff told him stiffly. “Daenerys is like to be dead by now.”

“I would have married her as we Targaryens do,” Aegon told him, eyes gazing blankly at the wall as his mind was faraway.

Griff feared he was still occupied with thoughts of besting Steffon Baratheon, and the look in the boy’s face only confirmed his fears.

“You cannot take on the might of the kingdoms until they have separated from the Usurper,” Griff reminded him, hoping that would stall him.

To his relief, Aegon seemed to stir from his thoughts as he nodded reluctantly. “Of course,” he said, before he stood and straightened, gaze piercing Griff with an intensity he had only known from Rhaegar.

“Send the Spider a message,” Aegon ordered, an aura of power surrounding him. If he closed his eyes, Griff could imagine that he was speaking instead to Rhaegar and not his son. “While he fans the flames of war, tell him Steffon Baratheon must not remain in the realm’s good will.”

Nodding, Griff murmured his assent as he watched Aegon take off, the aura of king falling away to be replaced with the mask of Young Griff.

_I will not fail you again_, he thought, the sound of bells ringing tauntingly in his ears.


	2. Winterfell

**Ned I:**

The Crypts were cool as they walked down the stairs, Robert huffing as he ordered his Kingsguard to stand outside.

For a moment, Ned thought he had seen a flash of intense dislike in the eldest prince’s green eyes when Robert declared his intention to visit Lyanna’s tomb. It was an odd thing to see in a face so like his old friends; the Robert he had known had held only stunned admiration in his face at the thought of his sister.

He led Robert past the tombs of his kin, leading them to the space that held his father and brother. He lit the sconce hanging between them before turning to Lyanna’s statue.

The only woman ever given a statue in Winterfell’s crypts, Ned came here every so often to place a winter rose in the palm of her outstretched hand. They had not managed to capture his sister’s surpassing loveliness, nor did the cold marble capture her liveliness.

“You should not have buried her here,” Robert croaked, eyes crinkled in muted emotion as he gazed on her statue. “She should have been buried on a high hill, beneath the sun and flowers with the rain to wash her clean.”

“I was with her when she died, she wanted to come home, to rest beside Brandon and Father. She was a Stark of Winterfell. This is where she belongs,” Ned countered, grey eyes fastened on the feather Robert placed on her palm. Lya had adored flowers, and if he closed his eyes he could remember her clutching tightly to the crown of roses in her bed of blood.

“She belonged with me,” Robert declared hoarsely, piercing Ned with stormy blue eyes. “I loved her and Rhaegar Targaryen stole her from me. All Seven Kingdoms could never fill the hole that she left behind, not when I should have had her for my wife.”

“You only saw the lady she was, you didn’t see the steel beneath her pretty dresses,” Ned said, recalling his sister’s fierceness. Lya had been lovely and wilful and dead before her time, led by her wolfsblood to an early grave.

_“Promise me, Ned!”_ echoed in his ears, forcing him to turn his gaze to Robert.

“Rhaegar Targaryen is dead beneath the Trident,” Ned told him. “And you’ve yourself three sons to carry your legacy.”

Robert’s face twisted slightly in a moue he had not seen outside. In the courtyard, the king had been openly boastful; the proud Stormlord Ned had been fostered with shining through as he beamed in pride at his children.

“Aye, my sons. A more stubborn pair I’ve not seen in all the kingdoms,” he huffed. “They do everything with a single-minded determinedness from swinging their swords to running my damned council.”

“A boon to the kingdoms,” Ned offered, “if they are so willing to perform their duty.”

Scoffing Robert replied, “More than willing, aye. I never wanted it, this crown. All I wanted was Lyanna; instead I have a cold wife and sons I spend more time having to reign in. Sometimes I think of leaving; go to Essos and live out my days as a sellsword fighting and fucking my way to death. Then I remember who I married, and the thought of Cersei as regent to my son holds me to this crown.”

“I had heard good things of Prince Steffon and Prince Joffrey,” Ned said carefully.

“They are good lads the both of them, sons I can be proud of,” Robert admitted quietly. “But they spend their time pushing the council to frustration, young and eager as they are to remake the world in their image and their grandfather encourages them. They almost did Jon in several times.”

A cold pit fell in his stomach as he thought on what Cat and Luwin had told him. _A Lannister plot_, he thought, and Ned’s stomach twisted as he remembered the bodies wrapped in crimson, so as to better hide the blood.

“Tell me of Jon,” he urged, wishing to put the ghosts of the past behind him. “How did it happen?”

Robert’s face turned wan, a sad smile on his face as he told him, “’twas old age that took him. The fever burned right through him, but I suppose I should be thankful he held on so long.”

“A fever?” Ned questioned, brow furrowed in thought. What could mimic a fever? _If the Lannisters even killed him_, a voice whispered darkly, but he was certain they were involved. Few families were as dishonourable as the lions.

“Aye, kept mumbling nonsense by the end of it. _‘The seed is strong’_ he would say,” Robert told him. “Ah, I should have let him go years before. Leave him to return to the Vale with his boy.”

“Lysa took him back to The Eyrie,” Ned mentioned, looking at Robert as he scowled.

“Aye, she took the boy with her as soon as Jon passed. I had hoped to have the boy fostered at The Rock, but she disappeared in the dead of the night without so much as a by your leave. Jon’s boy needs a regent and I mean to ward him, not leave him in the hands of a prissy woman to rule through her coddled son.”

“Surely one of the Vale lords would be honoured with the position?” Ned asked, worry churning in his gut as Robert confirmed his fears.

“They can bicker with the bloody woman for that all they want. I cannot ward the boy now his mother has seen fit to leave without my permission. But the Wardenship will go to Jaime Lannister.”

“The Kingslayer,” Ned said aghast, grey eyes cool as he stared at his friend. “You would give that position to a man with no honour?”

“He can have shit for honour all he likes. Jon’s boy is just that, a boy. And not one I’d ever give command of an army to,” Robert huffed.

“The Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale is always the Warden of the East Robert,” Ned argued. “The Knights of the Vale won’t take kindly to the Kingslayer being given the position over one of them.”

“No, but they will accept their king’s word,” Robert responded gruffly. “The boy is young and sickly, and Lord of the Eyrie besides. By all the gods, he is not fit to lead a quarter of the realms armies.”

“And the Kingslayer is?” Ned asked. “You would remove the Arryns from a position they have held with their domain and give it to one such as him?”

“Better him than a boy of seven; how can I expect a child to hold the east? Had my Steff been older, mayhaps I would have considered him, but he is young still and learning to rule besides. Perhaps when the boy comes of age I will restore the honour, but I must think of this year and the next what with those damned dragons to the east.”

“Dragons?” Ned asked carefully.

“That damned Targaryen girl is married. Wedded and bedded and with child of a Dothraki savage,” the king near growled. “I should have done away with them when they were like to be less of an issue, but Jon would not hear of it.”

“They are children,” Ned reminded him, hoping the long years since the war would have cooled his anger.

“Children who grow to want a throne they no longer hold. How long until the boy decides to cross the sea with those horselords at his side?” Robert demanded. “They say there are near a hundred thousand of them, all riding under the banner of Daenerys Targaryen’s husband.”

“They will never cross the sea, and should they we shall see them thrown back into it,” Ned promised.

Robert turned to Lyanna’s tomb, a hand reaching forward to cup the sculpture as if he were holding her cheek in hand.

“I swore I would never allow those Targaryens to take the throne. Not after what Rhaegar did to her,” Robert told him, turning back to gaze at Ned. “Jon understood, and now he is gone and left me with these pressing concerns. I need good men about me, men who are loyal and true in these difficult times.”

_And now we get to the heart of the matter_, Ned thought grimly. He had been predisposed to accepting Robert’s offer, and Ned was more convinced of his friend’s need for help as he heard how the Lannisters climbed in court.

“Eddard Stark,” Robert began, voice ringing with authority. “I would name you Hand of the King.”

Ned knelt in the crypts, the stone eyes of his ancestors watching over him as he looked upon his friend. “You honour me, Your Grace.”

“It’s not meant to be an honour, else I would not have come so far,” Robert grinned. “Come with me down south Ned, to that stinking shithole and run my kingdoms for me while I drink myself to an early grave and you piss yourself battling my sons.”

“Battling your sons?” he asked, face stoic as Robert gestured for him to rise.

“Aye. They’ve not seen proper battle in years, not since those damned bandits in the Crownlands. But they take the small council as their battleground, and you can fight them on it as Jon did, though you are like to get on better.”

Ned furrowed his brow, tucking away those thoughts for a later time. “Why would I get on better with them?”

Laughing, Robert clapped him on the shoulder. “I have a son, you have a daughter. I mean to join our Houses as Lyanna and I might once have,” Robert told him, surprising him with the offer. From the tone of his voice, Ned knew he would not take a refusal very well yet still he hesitated.

_Sansa could be queen_, he thought, thinking of his little girl who had been a lady since she learned to string her words together. His girl, whom the king wished to tie to one of his sons.

“Sansa is only two and ten,” Ned told him.

“Old enough for a betrothal,” Robert waved him off. “The marriage can wait some years.”

“This is an unexpected honour, Your Grace. May I have leave to consider?” Ned asked. “If I am to make my way South, I shall have to consider the children accompanying me.”

“Aye, think on it and speak to your lady wife. Your daughter can have her pick of them,” Robert laughed. “Either the future King or the future Hand it makes no difference to me – though I would prefer to see her as queen over that damned rose – they will both live in King’s Landing anyhow.”

“Future Hand,” he said, blinking owlishly at the surprising thought.

“The damned boy is his brother’s right hand; closer to him than even we were,” Robert told him as they made their way out of the crypts. “You’ll see more of him than you would like.”

_A half-Lannister King, a half-Lannister Hand, and Sansa tied to the both of them_, he thought, mind whirring with the possibilities.

“I will discuss it with her,” Ned promised. “We shall have to speak at some point as well, Robert. I cannot come south with things so dire in the North and at the Wall.”

Robert waved him off as Ned knew he would. “It can keep a few days more, though if you insist we can speak on it the day after next. For now we feast and keep merry. Speak to your lady wife and I’ll speak to mine, but I expect an answer before tonight.”

* * *

**Steffon II:**

He was seated at the desk in the rooms assigned to him when he heard the creak of an opening door. Glancing up from the parchment, Steffon smiled as Tommen came barrelling into his room, the younger boy practically flinging himself onto his bed.

“Steff, Father is soon to be looking for you,” Tommen told him, voice muffled by the furs.

“How would you know that?” he drawled, scribbling a note on the banners he had seen. “Father hasn’t returned from his sojourn to the crypts.”

“I heard,” Tommen responded, and Steffon withheld his groan of exasperation. At eight namedays, Tommen had the insufferable habit of not finishing his statements and forcing you to ask him to clarify.

It was a small rebellion on the part of the youngest child who enjoyed knowing things his older siblings did not.

“What did you hear, Tommen?” he asked patiently, green eyes boring into the blond head that rose from his bed. Tommen had an impish smile on his face, and the boy knew Steffon would not hold to any anger for long.

“Father _has_ returned,” the boy said, a dark look flitting over his features so quickly Steffon almost believed he had imagined it. “I heard them.”

“You heard th—” he cut his words short, cursing mentally as he realized just what his brother was speaking of. It was an acknowledged fact amongst the Baratheon children that for all their parents loved _them - _in the way two people such as Robert and Cersei could love their children - they could hardly stand to be near each other for long before the arguments came.

_Oh joy_, he thought darkly.

The entirety of the North was gathered to welcome the King and his family and the two were instead spending their moments at each other’s throats for all and sundry to hear.

“How thick do you think these walls are?” Steffon asked dryly, sighing as his door banged open once more.

“Steff,” Cella said, practically skipping inside the room and throwing herself on the bed beside Tommen, golden hair splayed across his cheeks. “I hear you are to be married, brother.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Steffon left the notes he had been writing and made his way to the bed, nudging his sister over so he fell in place next to her, Cella lying between him and Tommen.

“Let me guess,” he said sardonically. “You managed to conveniently overhear Father and Mother.”

“Naturally,” she drawled. “She seems unhappy with it.”

Rolling his eyes at what was surely an understatement – Cersei Lannister was never merely _unhappy_ with things – he poked her side as he asked, “Where’s Joff?”

“Complaining of the cold somewhere in his room,” she replied.

Joffrey waltzed into the room moments later, Ser Arys closing the door behind the prince as he threw himself on Tommen’s other side. “Why must the North be so gods damned _cold_!” he complained, setting the three of them off in a string of laughter.

“What is it?” Joff demanded, leaning on one hand to glare at them as they failed to stifle their laughter.

“Nothing Joff,” Tommen giggled, face buried in Cella’s shoulder.

“Cold? Really, brother it’s all you’ve complained of,” Steffon told him.

Joffrey had managed to find the time to complain of the cold at least once a day from the moment they set foot in the North, shivering in his silks before they managed to find furs. Robert had nearly tired of his son’s whinging, and would have had he not felt need to complain of the cold himself.

“Ungodly is what it is,” Joff huffed, throwing himself back onto the bed and jostling Tommen in the process.

“The castle is warm,” Tommen reminded him.

They lay there in silence for some time, the fire crackling as Steffon felt calm for the first time since their arrival.

Winterfell was everything he had expected and like nothing else he had seen. Uncle Tyrion was loose somewhere in the castle, he expected, the man like to search out the library and lose himself amongst the ancient scrolls.

_Would that I could join him_, he thought wistfully. He was resigned to spending his hours mingling with the Northerners and cementing their loyalty to the crown. He hoped these men were like the Stormlanders and more apt to forming alliances over a spar but he doubted it.

“They are expecting us soon,” Cella said, voice muffled as her arm covered her eyes.

“Expecting _you_,” Joff retorted. “We do not need hours to ready ourselves for a feast sweet sister.”

Grimacing, Steffon rose to his feet, the better to chivvy his siblings from his room. They were a tangle of gold, Tommen’s long locks mixing with Myrcella’s hair as Joffrey poked the squirming younger boy in the side.

“Out, all of you,” he said, lifting Myrcella to her feet when they ignored him. “Mother will be expecting us to look our best so as to _better show the North whom they owe their loyalty to_,” he mimicked their mother’s haughtiest tone, drawing snickers from Cella and Tom.

Cella planted a kiss on his cheek as she made her way out, Tommen stumbling after her and narrowly avoiding Uncle Jaime in the doorway as Ser Preston followed the youngest Baratheons.

Steffon threw a warning glare at Joffrey – though his brother for once did not have to hide his look of disdain – as Uncle Jaime stepped into the room with an exaggerated bow.

“Prince Steffon,” he said, a mocking lilt to his voice. “The King requires your presence.”

“A moment, Uncle. If you could tell my father I will be along shortly,” Steff responded, turning to face Joff.

“Ready to hear of your pending betrothal brother?” Joff asked as soon as Jaime left the room.

“We’ve just arrived at Winterfell. Even Father would not be so quick to announce a betrothal on the day he introduces us to the Northerners,” Steffon retorted. “He means to tell me to court her most like.”

“And I shall play the Dragonknight to your poor lady. Mayhaps I can convince her you are more Baelor the Blessed than Baelor Breakspear,” Joff laughed, green eyes twinkling in mirth.

“You’ll find yourself on the wrong end of Robb Stark’s sword,” Steffon told him, imagining the baffled looks on the Northerners faces as both brothers courted Lady Sansa.

“Aye, with his sword pitched on the ground. Robb Stark is nothing compared to Garlan Tyrell,” Joff scoffed.

“My, my, brother. Is that admiration I hear?” he said slyly, winking at Joff. “And here I was, thinking it was another rose you had your eye on.”

“Piss off Steff,” he scowled, pulling laughter from him. “You leave the king waiting at your own peril.”

Steffon ignored Joffrey’s mutterings, fixing his doublet as he made his way to the corridor. Ser Arys remained at his door as Ser Boros led Steffon to the King’s rooms. The queen’s chambers were separated from the King’s by a solar for his use, and Steffon had been placed in rooms a floor above, with Joffrey across from him and Cella and Tom next to each brother. Ser Meryn stood watch today, and Steff scowled as he guessed Ser Jaime had left to guard the queen.

_We are in Winterfell,_ he reminded himself. _This is not Casterly Rock, where they can hide their secrets. They could not possibly be so careless_.

He would have to confront his mother on it, he knew; one day, preferably further into the future when the threat of death by Father's warhammer was not hanging over their heads, and Steffon could let Joffrey yell to his heart's content. He pushed those thoughts aside as he entered the chambers reserved for his father.

The King was already drinking in preparation for the feast, though he had the wherewithal to limit himself so as not to present a drunkard king to his leal subjects.

“You called for me Father?” Steffon asked, face blank as Robert waved him into a seat near the hearth. The King’s chambers were warm, furs piled atop the bed while tapestries of Northern hunts hung from the walls, and Steffon was certain it would be a matter of time before his father had his whores within.

“Sit, we have much to discuss,” Robert told him.

Steffon sat silently, waiting for his father to break the silence. Riding North with Robert had been a harrowing journey; at times the King would perk up at the thought of his friend, but he often fell into sullen silences when thoughts of Jon Arryn plagued him or terrible rages as he thought on Daenerys and Viserys Targaryen.

“Eddard Stark will come south as Hand of the King,” Robert informed him. Steffon did his best approximation of a surprised face, though his father ignored it. “I expect you and your brother to _assist_ him as he sees fit.”

Pursing his lips at the veiled order he instead replied, “I did not think Lord Stark would agree.”

“He would not refuse me,” Robert scoffed. “Even if he spent his years holed up in the North.”

_And why would he agree now?_ Steffon wondered darkly.

He had expected it to be a futile trip, once they had entered the North and Steffon began to hear more of the whispers. Varys had warned the King of increased attacks from Wildlings but Robert had waved it off, sure of his decision to name his friend Hand. It seemed his faith was not misplaced, and Steffon squashed the sense of unease.

The game was changing too quickly for his tastes; it was all too convenient. Yet Robert Baratheon was certain of Ned Stark’s loyalty to him, to the years they had spent together in the Eyrie as brothers.

_Even the death of the Targaryen children did not tear apart their friendship once news of Lyanna Stark came_, he reminded himself.

Robert pinned him with a stormy gaze and warned, “I will not have you give him trouble, you or your brother. He shall have enough work to do dealing with those damned lords at court, I expect you to make his work easier for him. Perhaps he will whip the both of you into shape, Ned, considering the fine job he’s done with the North.”

“Of course, Father,” Steffon murmured, internally rolling his eyes at Robert’s insistence.

_Really,_ he wondered, _which of the Starks is meant to be his beloved?_

“I will be announcing your betrothal at the feast tonight.”

“My betrothal,” Steff echoed, blinking in surprise.

“Aye, your betrothal. You are five and ten, old enough to be promised to another,” Robert told him.

“Sansa Stark,” Steffon said. He had not thought Robert would make the decision on their first night – had expected the King to spend the time at Winterfell pushing the two of them together before he announced it – and Steffon’s mind was currently unable to think of any possible way to stop this betrothal from occurring.

“I should have been Ned’s goodbrother, our children bound by blood, but I suppose a Stark bride for yourself where mine own was stolen is good recompense,” Robert responded.

“Joff is sweet on her,” Steffon blurted out desperately, cringing inside at how that might come across.

“The boy’s got good sense,” his father chortled. “She’ll be a beauty in no time.”

Steffon struggled to keep himself from gaping, and his father had caught on to some of his displeasure at the thought.

“Drink,” the king ordered, handing Steff a cup of ale. “You’ll marry Sansa Stark when she flowers and make her your future queen, finally tying the Starks to the Baratheons by blood.”

Steffon swallowed a mouthful of ale, the bitterness not bothering him as he thought on Robert’s words. _If only it were as simple as you make it seem Father_.

“Have you any word from Uncle Stannis?” he asked.

Robert scoffed, pouring himself another cup of ale. “He ran off to brood on that rock of his, grinding his teeth together over the supposed insult I dealt him.”

“I’m certain he expected to be honoured with the position,” Steffon said delicately. Navigating his father and uncles’ tumultuous relationship was a headache on a good day – and he was not certain of his father’s mood regarding his brother.

“Bah! All Stannis grumbles over is what he feels is his due,” Robert groused.

_You took Storm’s End from him and passed him over for a friend you’ve not seen in near a decade_, he thought silently, seeing why his uncle would feel anger at the continued slights.

“Will you call him back?” Seeing Robert’s blank look he pressed, “Uncle Stannis is the Master of Ships and has been gone since before we returned from Oldtown. Order hi—”

“I’ll not order him back,” Robert cut in curtly.

“Father,” he tried, but the king was in no mood to listen to his son.

“If Stannis wishes to stay hidden on his island with _those_ lords surrounding him as he throws a fit over nothing then so be it.”

“And the council position?” Steffon asked tersely. Robert would be unmoved on this – that much he knew of his father. Stannis’s stubborn pride was matched by his brother the king’s.

“When we return to King’s Landing, you can discuss it to your heart’s content with the new Hand,” Robert told him. “Now come, we have a feast to prepare for.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Steffon murmured, standing to leave the room after giving his father a stiff bow.

* * *

They were expected to enter with the Starks, and Steffon grimaced at the thought of what awaited them when the King made his announcement. He had paced in his room for most of the hour before he was expected and had had to rush to ready himself.

“Smile, brother. You look as if you are walking to the executioners block and not a bloody feast,” Joffrey murmured, smile fixed on his face as they neared the gathering of Starks. He would be escorting Lady Arya to her seat, and Steffon hoped for one irrational moment that the little girl who had muttered so brazenly of the imp would be willing to kick his brother.

“I do _not_,” Steffon hissed in reply, straightening his black and gold doublet, the stag outlined in green stitiching.

“Not to the rest, perhaps,” Joff snorted. “I’ve spent my entire life around you brother, I _am_ capable of recognizing when you are displeased.”

Pursing his lips, Steffon glanced quickly across the room, seeing the others occupied with greeting his parents. The queen managed to hide her distaste, smiling politely as she stood next to Lord Stark.

“Father means to make the announcement tonight,” Steffon said lowly, lips barely moving.

He saw Joff’s brow twitch in surprise before green eyes pinned him with disbelief. “Already?”

“His bride was stolen from him,” he muttered sourly as he hid his grimace. “He wants the entire North to know Lady Sansa is promised to the Crown.”

To his surprise, Joff laughed lowly. “Plot all you want, it seems even you did not account for Father’s wilfulness.”

Grimacing in acknowledgement, Steffon plastered a smile on his face as they finally approached the Starks. Cella and Tom were stood next to Robb and Bran Stark, both children dressed in their finest cloth-of-gold, Cella’s gown shot through with black and red flowers. Tommen’s doublet was embroidered with the black crowned stag, emeralds stitched in place of its eyes to mimic the stitching on his and Joff’s clothes.

“Lord Robb,” Steffon greeted, a hand held out to the red-haired heir to the North. He was stocky – built more along the lines of his mother’s family from what he had seen of Lord Stark – and shorter than both Joff and himself, a fact that seemed to displease him slightly.

Robb Stark nodded seriously, a muttered “Prince Steffon,” leaving him as they clasped hands. There was an easy smile on his face as he glanced at Myrcella, her cheeks dusted pink, and Steffon withheld the glower he dearly wished to send the Stark heir.

“Lady Sansa,” Joff bowed, brushing a kiss on her knuckles as both parents turned to watch. Father was smirking at the display, no doubt reminded of his words earlier.

Lady Sansa blushed scarlet as she curtsied in greeting, “Prince Joffrey.”

_Bloody prick_, he thought once more, knowing Joff was enjoying himself. “Lady Sansa, well met,” Steff said as he held her hand gently. Her cheeks remained dusted, and Steffon could agree with his father that Sansa Stark would grow to be a beautiful lady.

Robb Stark glared unhappily at the two princes, watching his sister be charmed before Joff turned to greet Arya Stark.

The younger Stark girl was all Northern, from her dark hair and long face to the grey eyes she shared with her father. There was a slight scowl on her face, one that was removed by her mother’s glare.

A servant came forward to speak quietly to Lord Stark, and at the man’s nod he ran back to the doors. Steffon fell into place behind his mother and Lord Stark, Lady Sansa on his arm. She wore a pretty gown of blue with elaborate embroidering, red hair braided into a crown on her head. Robb Stark stood directly behind him with Cella, Joff and Lady Arya behind them and the Lord Bran and Tommen further back, with Uncle Jaime and Uncle Tyrion bringing up the rear.

The doors to Winterfell’s Great Hall were opened, the raucous sounds from within dimming as they stood at the sight of the king and queen.

This was most different from a Southron feast; at least in King’s Landing, they would put on a show for their king. It was oddly refreshing; the lack of politicking that would be visible from the moment of entry south of The Neck was missing here, though he did not doubt that there were some players of the game in this room. _Not everyone is Ned Stark_, he reminded himself.

Father led Lady Stark to the high table, and Steffon was slightly grateful that they were not expected to sit there with the Northern Lords. Lord Stark had invited his most principal bannermen to the high table – though he only recognized Lord Manderly from Ser Wendel’s descriptions – and Steffon and his siblings would be seated with the Stark children and the heirs of the North.

The table was long, placed beneath the high table with enough seats to house all the Baratheon and Stark children, another table close by with a dozen more seats for the Northerners.

He escorted Sansa Stark to her chair, Steffon seated next to her as his brother sat next to him. Robb Stark bracketed his sister, Cella smiling from next to him as Tommen and Bran Stark took the remaining seats.

Father sat in the high chair next to Lord Stark, Mother and Lady Stark next to him as a Northern lord sat beside Father. It must have been one he recognized, for they greeted each other as if old acquaintances.

“Is the North to your liking, Prince Steffon?” Lady Sansa asked as the first course was brought out. The King had merely shouted for the feast to begin, unwilling to let a flowery speech prevent him from his ale.

“It’s a beautiful land, my lady,” he replied. Musicians played lively tunes as the plates were served, neatly covering Joff’s muttered, “I wonder what the Northerners get up to under the cover of dark lighting in their feasts.”

Steffon kicked him sharply beneath the table, smiling as he saw Arya Stark catch sight of Joffrey’s wince.

“Behave,” he muttered.

“I suppose it’s not quite what you are used to,” Robb Stark said, blue eyes boring into Steffon’s green orbs.

“Not at all,” he said easily. “It’s much colder than the South, though the rolling hills can be found in the Reach.”

“Have you been to Highgarden, my prince?” Sansa asked, flush firmly in place.

“A stopover on our journey to Oldtown,” Joff interjected, smiling at Sansa. “Unfortunate that, as Highgarden certainly seems a beautiful place.”

There was a wistful smile on her face, and Steff imagined she wished to explore the world beyond the walls of Winterfell. He could relate; as Harry he had been severely limited in his travels, and the opportunity to see more of the world was something he seized in this life, though part of him mourned the lack of opportunity to see Essos.

"It must have been wonderful, seeing all those knights at the tourney," she added, gaze switching between Joff and he as she wondered which brother would answer.

"It was quite the experience," Steff replied, ignoring the muffled snort from his left. "Moreso for Joff than myself, I fear."

Platters of meat were brought out; roast pork, honeyed venison, salted beef stew alongside plates of lemon-crusted trout. It was different fare from the South, where there were varieties of meat, each seasoned with a different spice.

To his amusement, Lady Arya kept Joffrey occupied for much of the feast. The two were speaking of swords of all things, and Steffon bit back a smile at the obvious enthusiasm the younger girl held for all things martial.

“…trained with Ser Barristan,” he heard her say, and Steffon turned to their conversation.

Laughing, Joff replied, “Not when he wakes you at the hour of the nightingale for training.”

“Does he really?” Bran asked, eyes wide in admiration.

Tommen nodded sagely, the younger boy having witnessed their at times punishing training schedule. “A spar first thing in the morning, and training after lessons with the maester.”

“I want to be a knight of the Kingsguard!” Bran declared, eyes wistful.

“Do they have knights in the North?” Joff asked curiously.

“Ser Rodrick is a knight and our master-at-arms,” Arya defended, and Joffrey laughingly raised his arms in deference.

“I meant no offense, my lady,” he told her, smiling in amusement at the look of consternation on her face.

“We follow both the Old Gods and the Seven,” Bran told them. “I can be knighted.”

“Your Ser Rodrick doesn’t follow the Seven though he was still knighted,” Steff pointed out. “It is possible to earn your spurs without standing vigil.”

“Ser Barristan knighted you without standing vigil?” Robb asked, grudgingly curious as he stared at Joff.

“I earned my spurs after the melee at the Tourney of Oldtown,” he told them, the youngest boys hanging on to his every word, though Tommen had demanded a lengthy explanation of the tourney while they travelled north. “Ser Barristan insisted I stand vigil at the sept.”

A flurry of questions came from the youngest Starks, and Steffon and Joffrey indulged the children with tales of their travels as Robb Stark offered an occasional remark. Unknown to Steffon, there was a peevish glare on Lady Sansa’s face directed at her sister, though Myrcella had been watching in amusement as she chatted with the eldest Stark girl.

It was as they were recounting the spar with Ser Rolland that had ended with their father’s cousin Andrew Estermont falling headfirst into a pail of muddied water that the king stood, the hall falling immediately into silence.

“Ah you Northerners do know how to feast,” Father said, patting his belly as the laughter of the lords rang out across the hall. “Aye, ‘tis an honour to be here with Ned after so long, and an honour to announce the joining of our Houses.”

Whispers broke out amongst the crowd, and Steffon could see the flash of surprise on the faces of Lord Robb and Lady Sansa, even as hers changed to excitement in short order.

_Ned Stark’s heir is unaware_, he thought in surprise. Gods, for all that Robert was not the best of fathers, Steffon could be glad that he at least informed him of this arrangement. The Northern lords all looked stoic, faces unreadable as they waited to hear whether King Robert would demand the heir to the North for his daughter or would claim a Stark maiden for his son.

“To Prince Steffon of House Baratheon and Lady Sansa of House Stark!”

Cheers broke out amongst the crowd as they toasted the two of them, and Steffon sent an easy smile at Sansa Stark, her face flushed prettily in response.

Music rang out through the hall, the tune a lively Northern one he had never heard before.

“Lady Sansa,” he said, getting to his feet before his mother could glare him into action. “If you would do me the honour of a dance?”

“Of course, Prince Steffon,” she responded, clutching his hand as he led her to the space that had been cleared for dancing.

“I’m afraid I have never danced to Northern tunes, my lady,” he told her. “I hope you shall lead me away from any errors.”

Smiling, Steffon glanced quickly around the room - seeing the stares of Sansa Stark’s would-be suitors – before they launched into the dance, twirling about amongst the other pairs lined up. They shared two dances before he swapped places with Robb Stark, each boy dancing with their sister.

“Congratulations brother,” Myrcella said as he lifted her. “You make a pretty pair.”

Steffon smiled sardonically; Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister had made a pretty pair, though their marriage left much to be desired. To be fair, Sansa Stark seemed a much sweeter lady than his mother - if a touch too enamoured with the stories of glorious knights and fair maidens - but Steffon was leery over any betrothal when Renly was so closely tied to ambitious roses.

“Thank you, Cella,” he replied, flashing a smile at his sister.

There were expectations that he would entertain the heirs of the North, and though newly betrothed, Steffon found himself sharing dances with the daughters of Eddard Stark’s bannermen.

It was as he danced with a maiden in a sea green dress with blonde locks that he recalled where he had seen her familiar features. Ser Wendel Manderly had spent enough time speaking of his nieces that Steffon felt as if he should have recognized her immediately.

“Lady Wynafred,” he said, smoothly turning around a stumbling pair. “How fares your uncle?”

“Well, my prince. I believe he plans to return to King’s Landing shortly after your departure,” she told him.

“He has been a welcome addition to court,” he said sincerely. “Managed to liven things up quite a bit.”

Smirking she said, “An unexpected outcome, I imagine. Seven blessings on your betrothal, Your Grace.”

“My thanks, my lady,” he smiled. “I imagine your father and grandfather will be looking to make a match for you what with all the North gathered.”

“An opportunity should arise, I’m sure,” Wynafred responded, curtsying as the song came to an end.

Steffon escorted her to the table of Northerners, and at Robb Stark’s invitation seated himself next to his betrothed’s brother. Joffrey was seated down the table, between an older man he would swear had giants blood and a lady several years older than them dressed in a patterned brown and green gown. They were arguing fiercely over something, and Steffon caught enough of their conversation to know there would most likely be a spar tomorrow.

“Congratulations,” Robb Stark said to him. “It seems we are to be goodbrothers.”

“It does,” he responded, flagging a servant for a cup of wine.

His father was seated at the high table, face pressed against a serving woman’s bosom, and Steffon pointedly ignored the display as he turned to Robb Stark’s companions.

“This is Ser Domeric Bolton, Lord Roose’s heir,” he introduced the pale eyed man next to him. His face was comely enough, and Steffon tried to recall where he had heard his name.

“You squired in the Vale,” he stated, remembering the mention of a Northerner squiring had been an odd occurrence.

“I did, Prince Steffon,” Ser Domeric replied, head tilted in acknowledgement. “I spent several years with Lord Horton Redfort.”

“I’ve not yet had the chance to visit the Vale,” Steffon told him.

“It’s lovely enough, though I shall always prefer home to elsewhere, as I’m sure you can understand.”

_Aye, even when home is the pit that is King’s Landing_, he thought.

“This here is Daryn Hornwood,” Robb introduced the man with brown hair, an roguish smile on his face as he japed with the man next to him.

“Well met, Prince Steffon,” he greeted, eyes sweeping critically over him.

Steff smiled in response, taking a sip of the Arbor Red as he glanced at Joff.

“How long have they been arguing?” Steffon asked Robb, seeing Joffrey gesture wildly with his hands to raucous laughter.

“A few minutes before you joined us,” Robb told him.

“Is it true your brother was knighted?” Daryn Hornwood asked, leaning forward in anticipation.

“He was. Just before we left Oldtown,” Steff replied, a proud smile playing at his lips. “Joff has always been a good sword.”

“A spar then,” Robb proposed, blue eyes glinting in determination.

“A spar. Are you certain you don’t mind the pounding?” Steff asked lightly, a teasing grin on his face as his eyes flicked to Joff.

Steffon was taller and broader than Robb Stark, more akin to the Demon of the Trident than his mother’s family, and even they were fairly tall as Joff showed.

“We’ll show you how real Northerners fight,” the giant beside Joff boasted.

“You wish Umber,” Joff scoffed. “More like you’ll fall flat after all you’ve drunk.”

“Haha, the prince cannot handle his ale?” Smalljon Umber taunted, a grin on his face as he gulped a mouthful to prove his point.

“Alright then. You and I, tomorrow,” Joff said. “Live steel?”

“Ser Rodrick’s not like to allow it,” Bran Stark piped up. When the boy had joined them he did not know, but Steffon glanced back at the table to see Sansa Stark left to gossip with Myrcella and the other ladies, Arya leaning next to Bran and Tommen.

“There’s no need,” Steff said casually, leaning back in his seat as he sent a mocking grin at Robb Stark. “Tourney swords bruise just as nicely, Stark.”

“You have yourself a match, Baratheon,” Robb said.

Steffon tipped his wine glass at him, smirking in amusement as the other heirs began to take wagers.

* * *

It was frigid in the morning, or at least that was what he could gather from Joffrey’s complaints.

“How are you not cold?” Joff hissed in envy, his nose pinked.

“I’ve learned to adapt little brother. Quite the miracle I assure you,” he joked, ignoring the scowl Joff sent as they made their way to the sparring grounds.

They had forgone their usual armour, fighting instead with a thick leather gambeson, the padding enough to prevent the more serious injuries.

“Who all are expected to show?” Steff asked as they trudged through the snow. He had had his morning meal sent to his rooms, the majority of the gathered nobles slumbering past their usual hours. From what he knew, his father had left the feast early in the company of two serving wenches, Lady Stark doing a wonderful imitation of stone as she ignored the king’s philandering ways.

“Every bloody Northern heir and that Greyjoy hostage,” Joff told him.

“He wasn’t at the feast,” Steff noted.

“The lower tables,” Joff replied. “Lady Arya made mention that he was sitting with her brother.”

“Her brother,” he echoed in confusion, before recalling his father’s favourite tale when it came to Eddard Stark. Famously honourable Lord Stark had never given in to his friend’s ribbing and whoring until the war had begun, managing to sire a son on an unnamed woman. His mother assumed it was a Dayne, the deceased sister of the Sword of the Morning, or a camp follower from the Crownlands.

“Jon, wasn’t it?”

“Aye, Jon Snow,” Joff said, pointing to the two boys fighting in the ring.

Ser Rodrick was watching alongside the Northern heirs as a boy who was most definitely a Stark fought against an older, more lithe youth with light brown hair.

Steffon fell into place next to Robb Stark, the others shuffling over to make room for Joff and he to join them.

“How long have they been sparring?” he asked.

“A few minutes, though Jon should have ended it by now,” Robb told him. He was frowning at his brother before he muttered, “an off day.”

_No, that’s not it_, Steffon thought, following Jon Snow’s form with a critical eye.

“He’s holding back,” Joff muttered in surprise before his eyes flashed in disdain.

“Don’t do anything stupid Joff,” Steffon warned, seeing the angry glint in his brother's green eyes.

They were not in King’s Landing, nor were they like to make things easier for the Snow. Ned Stark’s honour had compelled him to raise his bastard amongst his trueborn children, but Steffon did not imagine that it was taken well. Not when the boy looked more a Stark than his siblings did.

“Come bastard,” taunted the older boy as he whacked his sword against Snow’s wrist. “Not good for much but your pretty hair,” the boy jeered.

“End it Theon,” Robb Stark called out, and after a particularly vicious grin he sprang forward.

It was slightly painful to watch, and Steffon saw Jon Snow’s sword arm slacken enough to take a hit that should not have caused him to drop his sword.

His master-at-arms merely called the end of the spar, a short nod at Snow as the Greyjoy crowed his victory. “Not up for another round bastard? Don’t want to be put in your place?”

Before Steffon had realized, Joffrey pushed forward, sauntering to the centre with all the arrogance the North expected of a spoiled princeling.

“I can do with a spar to warm me up before the other matches,” Joff taunted, green eyes cold as he stared at the Ironborn with a smirk.

Low murmurs broke out as Smalljon barked a laugh, the Northerners eagerly watching Greyjoy splutter in uncertainty.

“Unless you can’t handle a mere boy of three and ten?” Joff goaded. “What do you say, Hound?”

Their mother’s knight had stood at the edge of the sparring yard, his hair mostly covering the burns on his face.

A gift from his brother, it had been rumoured, and Steffon had heard enough whispers in the West of the Mountain to believe he would do so.

“Boy’s more like to piss himself,” Sandor said, spitting on the ground. "Squids are only good for fishing."

Greyjoy’s eyes hardened in angry determination as he nodded his agreement at Ser Rodrick.

“Perhaps another sparring partner, Prince Joffrey?” The old master-at-arms looked anxious, and Steffon watched as Joffrey waved him off.

“Do try not to hold back Greyjoy. My father is not like to harm you for bruises in the training yard,” Joff told him as he chose his sword, testing the balance of several before picking Jon Snow’s discarded blade.

Arya Stark sidled up to him, and Steffon glanced down in amusement as his brother and hers followed after her.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in lessons?” Jon Snow asked her. He was stood awkwardly near them, but not quite part of the gathering.

“Needlework is boring,” she retorted. “I’d rather learn the sword.”

Chuckling softly, Jon Snow mussed his sister’s hair fondly before turning to leave.

“Jon, is it?” Steffon called, seeing the older boy tense in surprise. From beside him, Steffon could feel the anxious glare Robb was sending, his body taut as he awaited some manner of insult to his beloved brother.

“It is, Your Grace. Jon Snow,” he said, bowing stiffly.

Steffon waved off his bow, “Join us,” he said. “I imagine you might enjoy this match.”

The boy opened his mouth as if to protest before Tommen piped up, “Bran says you’re good with the sword Lord Jon.”

“Just Jon Snow, Your Grace,” he replied. His cheeks were dusted pink, and Steffon saw the wary surprise in his gaze as grey eyes flicked to Robb Stark.

“Prince Steffon,” Robb began warily, eyes flitting above his shoulder.

“I insist,” Steffon told them, and they reluctantly agreed as Jon stood stiffly near his younger siblings.

Joff had begun to circle Theon Greyjoy, words leaving him though they were too low for Steffon to make out. Whatever it was had enraged the older boy as he rushed forward with an overhead swing.

Joff sidestepped it, swinging hard to connect with the back of Greyjoy’s leg.

“He’s not much of a swordsman is he?” Steffon asked, watching as Joffrey managed to avoid most of his hits.

“Theon is a better archer,” Robb responded, eyes narrowed at the spar. “But he can typically hold his own with a sword.”

He was toying with him; Steffon had sparred with Joffrey enough to know when the boy took an opponent seriously, and whether it was the taunts of Jon Snow’s bastardy or the arrogance of an Ironborn hostage that had riled him, Joffrey was absolutely punishing in his swings.

Bran and Tommen cheered from next to him, the two boys watching as Joffrey whacked his sword against Theon’s off hand.

Leaning closer to Jon Snow, Steffon murmured, “You were holding back.”

Jon stiffened, face blank as he kept his eyes on the spar. “I’m not sure I understand. I was having an off day,” he said impassively.

“And I am the Stranger come to life,” Steffon snorted, ignoring Tommen’s muffled laughter.

“Septa Mordane would scold you for blasphemy,” Arya told him, grey eyes alight with laughter as she leaned forward to watch Joffrey finally disarm Theon.

“Just as she would scold you for missing out on your lessons,” Robb chided lightly.

The youngest children cheered as Joff leaned forward to speak quietly to the Ironborn, laughing as Theon stormed away.

“Care to try your luck, my lords?” Joff asked, an arrogant grin on his face.

“Let the others get their blood running,” Steffon called, laughing as Joffrey sent an overly exaggerated bow before returning the blade.

“How did I do?” the blond prince asked the youngest boys, basking in their cheerful praise.

Two of the Northerners took to the grounds, their blades clashing ferociously as they fought.

“Who are they?” he asked Arya.

“The younger girl pointed to the taller man with black hair and blue-grey eyes, “That one is Torrhen Karstark,” she told him. “The other Ser Roose Ryswell.”

“Jon,” Joffrey said suddenly, drawing the attention of those closest to them. “Care for a spar later?”

“I could not, Your Grace,” he refused, eyes wary as his long face remained stoic in the face of sudden scrutiny.

“Knock it off Joffrey,” Steffon said, sending a pointed glance at his brother.

“Just wanted to see how he fought when he wasn’t holding back,” Joff stated lightly, eyes gleaming as several heads turned to Jon.

“You were holding back?” Robb asked, blue eyes searching his brother’s face.

“An off day,” Jon replied stiffly, and Steffon sent a glower of disapproval at Joffrey.

The blond seemed to realize the uncomfortable position he had forced the older boy in, sending him a grimace in apology.

Steffon turned back to the spar, hearing Bran and Tommen cheer loudly as Torrhen Karstark punched Roose Ryswell before lashing out with a quick swipe.

“My apologies, Jon Snow,” Joff murmured lightly, as Steffon strained to hear their words. “I meant no offense.”

“There is no need to apologize, Prince Joffrey. I am but a bastard.”

“Better Lord Stark’s bastard than a damned squid,” Joffrey scoffed. “Your birth is no crime, Jon Snow, though the rest of the world will not see it as such.”

Steffon covered a smile as Jon Snow shifted in surprise. Lady Arya was watching his brother closely, eyes narrowed as she waited for some insult.

“I thought all Southroners hated bastards,” she said bluntly, glowering sceptically at Joff.

“Most do,” Steffon agreed. “Complete nonsense, as they did not ask to be born.”

Arya Stark’s wolfed crept forward, nose pressed into Steffon’s hip as he stilled in surprise. Sandor lurched forward, hand reaching for his sword as he warily eyed the massive direwolf. Her golden eyes were fixed on Joff as Bran helped Tommen tentatively stroke her mottled grey fur. The she-wolf pressed once more against him, tongue lolling out of her mouth before she licked his hand in greeting.

“I suppose if Nymeria likes you then that’s good enough for me,” she declared, patting her wolf fondly as she lay down between them.

“Nymeria is meant to be in the cages,” Robb said with a touch of exasperation.

“Wolves are not meant to be caged, direwolves less so,” she responded primly, and Steffon snorted in amusement. That was the most lady-like he had heard Arya Stark sound, and it was outrageous enough to draw their laughter.

“Come Stark, I do believe you promised me a spar,” Steff said.

“Go Steff!” Tommen cheered, and Steffon laughed as Robb Stark’s younger brother cheered alongside him, to the bafflement of the Stark heir.

* * *

It was near a sennight into their stay when Lord Stark insisted on a Northern council. Rare were the kings who travelled this far north, though he knew some were probably surprised at the lack of visits from the king who proclaimed Eddard Stark his greatest friend.

Uncle Tyrion would be accompanying them as their unofficial advisor, as well as having been in contact with Lord Manderly for some time. The older man wanted to visit White Harbour after his journey to the Wall, promising his nephews that he would meet them in King’s Landing after they had helped Lord Stark settle in.

They were waiting for the king, the man for once eager to join a council, and Steffon took the empty seat near his father’s, Joff seated next to him. He had spent most of his days on the sparring grounds with the Northern heirs as Joffrey struck up a surprising friendship with Jon Snow. For one memorable moment, his mother and Lady Stark had worn matching looks of disdain as they witnessed Joff go out of his way to include Jon in their gatherings.

The Stark bastard was noticeably uncomfortable, often keeping as far away from them as he could, but Steffon had welcomed the older boy and watched as where he expected Robb Stark to warm even the slightest bit to them, the heir to the North remained suspicious.

_“A bastard is a bastard is a bastard,”_ Joff had told him when Steff spoke to him one night of his actions. “_And _I_,_ _dear brother, shall not be one to scorn him for his birth. Let them stew over that as they want for I do not intend to give him Winterfell, merely someone who will not accuse him of giving in to the supposedly deceitful nature expected of bastards.”_

No matter what warning he gave Joffrey – _and how Steffon had loathed the thought of reprimanding the brother who had agonized over the truth of his birth_ – the golden prince was determined in his course. Jon Snow was not someone he would have expected Joffrey to befriend – had expected Joffrey to avoid the bastard for the simple sake of avoiding undue attention – but beyond giving their mother a coronary, Steff was glad to see the two boys genuinely enjoyed each other’s company.

To his slight astonishment, Ned Stark had seemed perturbed with the growing friendship, and Steffon pushed away thoughts of Lord Stark’s obvious dislike for his mother’s House and what it meant for them.

The Northern bannermen were seated at the large table, each lord or lady present with their heir or an advisor in the case of the heirless few as they looked on in slight surprise at their presence here. At first glance, Steffon could not see any noticeable divisions amongst them, though he had noticed that perhaps a few did not see eye-to-eye based on their heirs’ comportment.

“Grim lot these Northerners,” Uncle Tyrion quipped, uncaring of the glares sent from those seated closest.

“I thought you liked your tongue, Uncle,” Joff said lightly, grinning as Lord Umber pierced Tyrion with a fierce stare.

“Would they cut it off?” Tyrion wondered aloud.

_Probably send you to be flayed_, he thought. _How much would dwarf tongue go for?_

Lord Stark had proven his mettle as Hand when he managed to rouse the king earlier than Steffon had expected, the lords standing until he seated himself.

“My lords, my ladies,” Robert began, nodding shortly to the two woman who commanded holdings in the North. _Lady Dustin and Lady Mormont_, he recalled from Bran Stark’s helpful pointers. “This meeting can now begin.”

Steffon stifled an eye roll at the inelegant opening to the meeting, certain they gleaned the King’s lack of care for other meetings from that.

“Your Grace,” Lord Stark began. “Before we begin with our most pressing concern, I believe we can go over the North’s contribution in taxes for the coming year.”

There were murmurs of assent from his bannermen, and Steffon leafed through his parchments to find the agreement he and Uncle Tyrion had managed to wrangle from the council.

“Currently, the North has reverted to full payment in coin, with a three percentage increase in the past year.”

“Three percent?” Joff frowned, a sharp glare at Lord Stark.

“That is the agreed upon payment for the past year to cover increasing costs,” Lord Stark responded.

“I am aware of the changes,” Father surprisingly stated, and Steff shared a quick glance with Joffrey. They had spent less than a sennight in King’s Landing before their journey – a clear mistake, as they had been unable to confirm certain things with the council.

_Better for us that we are no longer planning a progress_, he thought darkly.

“With winter coming, the increased coin will prove difficult to recover as our harvests take longer,” Lord Stark continued.

“The construction of the ships required gold,” Robert replied, and Steffon had to bite his cheek to keep from screaming in frustration.

_Gods, how much money does his lifestyle require?_ Steff wondered furiously. The King had benefitted from his Master of Coin’s increase in taxes, using the extra coin to invest in tourneys and whores and his drunken nights.

The Northern lords watched their king, eyes dark and unreadable as the man whom they fought to crown dismissed their worry.

“We were led to believe, Your Grace, that the North would cover the cost for the royal fleet in lumber,” came the soft whisper of Roose Bolton, pale eyes focused keenly on King Robert.

Next to him, Lord Karstark nodded in agreement. He was one of the lords paying in wood, if Steffon remembered correctly, and the justification for the increases would seem insubstantial to him.

Joffrey was busy with a piece of parchment, quill moving swiftly as he jotted something down before pressing the ink hard.

_Kingsroad?_ He had written, and Steffon lightly nudged his foot against his brother in thanks.

“Perhaps a slight change,” Steffon offered, glancing about the room. His father’s eyes narrowed a touch, but Steffon pushed through. It had taken them over two weeks to make it to Winterfell from Moat Cailin, and part of that issue had been the dilapidated state of the Kingsroad.

“With winter soon to approach, there will be need for better road conditions. The Kingsroad south of Winterfell is not at its best, and I cannot speak for the road to Castle Black.”

“A travesty that does not deserve to be called a road,” Benjen Stark put forth. Lord Stark's brother looked nearly as grim as he, with streaks of grey in his hair and cool eyes that had flickered with suspicion at the sight of Lannisters. “You’ve not been to the Wall before, but the road is more akin to dirt tracks north of here.”

Murmurs of agreement came from the Northerners as they lamented the state of their infrastructure.

“What does the South know of winter?” a giant lord scoffed, bushy brows furrowed in slight disdain.

“Much less than you lords I gather, but the maesters are predicting a fairly long winter,” Tyrion replied.

“What do they know of the cold?” another grumbled. “They feel only the light chill of a Northern summer.”

“Your plan for the roads, Prince Steffon?” Lord Stark asked, diverting his bannermen’s attention.

“You know the North much better than we,” Steffon said, looking at the map the maester of Winterfell brought forward. “Here and here,” he said, pointing to mountain ridges to the North. “We can find stone quarries.”

“Use Northern stone for the roads?”

“That would help cut costs of transporting the stone across kingdoms, and the bulk of the labourers would come from the North as well I presume?” Lord Robb mused.

“Of course, we would have to send a few engineers from the South to assist in the building. I’ve been told putting stone together is harder than it seems,” Uncle Tyrion japed, and Steffon had to stifle the urge to laugh as he saw the expressions of the Northern Lords.

“There will be no need for that, my lord, Your Grace,” Lord Manderly cut in. “We’ve builders enough in White Harbour.”

“Aye, all we need to discuss is the matter of coin,” Lord Flint added.

Eddard Stark looked impassive as his bannermen began to lobby the king for lessened costs in taxes. Robert would not budge – not when he so thoroughly convinced himself that he needed the extra coin – but he had acknowledged years ago that the Crown would pay for the upkeep of the Kingsroad in addition to the Lords Paramount.

Steffon had given Lord Stark an out with the quarries, and Lord Manderly had limited costs to paying their own smallfolk for the work done. Now the Northerners had to remind the king of his obligations.

Steff ignored the looks from the Northerners as Uncle Tyrion drew a draft of the Crown’s proposed cost for upkeep.

“Littlefinger will not be happy with the increased costs,” Joff muttered.

“Lord Baelish can drown his misery in his whores,” Steffon retorted, causing choked laughter from his brother.

The arguments died down, the Northerners remaining impassive as Steffon wondered at their reaction to the king’s proposal.

_Would it kill them to show some emotion?_ He groused to himself. For all that the Southroners played the game, the North was proving difficult to crack.

_An honest people my arse_, he scowled, focusing as the room became impossibly tense.

“There is another matter to discuss, Your Grace,” Lord Bolton stated. The man looked enough like his son, but where Ser Domeric had some life in his eyes Roose Bolton had pale, lifeless eyes that stared at you as if there were no thoughts hidden behind them. It was rather unnerving to Steffon, and he shuddered at the thought of Lord Bolton in the same vicinity as his grandfather.

“Aye, the Wildlings,” Father grunted, setting down his mug of ale. “Lord Varys has made mention of some incidents.”

“More than incidents, Your Grace,” Lady Mormont spoke. Bear Island was far enough North that they dealt with threats from Ironborn reavers and Wildlings. “There have been a disturbing amount of raids.”

“How many more raids?” Joff asked. “I imagine they find their way to the North often.”

“A fourfold increase, Prince Joffrey,” Lord Umber boomed darkly. “Last Hearth sees about six Wildling raids a year. We’d already seen twenty with only three moons left of the year.”

“Why come so far south?” Father asked.

“There are rumours,” Lord Stark began delicately, his face grim as he shared a glance with his brother.

“A King-Beyond-The-Wall,” Benjen stated bluntly, grey eyes fixed on the king.

“Someone is proclaiming themselves king?” Steffon asked in surprise.

“There have been several in the long history of the North,” the maester interjected, “though we’ve not seen one for some time.”

“And who’s the shit calling themselves king?” Father asked his face tinged with fury.

_This is not good_, Steffon thought in alarm. Robert Baratheon was nowhere near fighting fit, but the man would insist on bringing a war against any claiming his title in spite of his disdain for ruling.

“A former brother of the Night’s Watch, Mance Rayder,” Benjen replied quietly.

“What _do_ these kings typically want?” Steffon asked, staring intently at the map of the North.

The Wall was a three-week ride from Winterfell – a fortnight if one made good time – and Winterfell was in no true danger from Wildlings.

“To cross the Wall,” Lord Karstark muttered. “Like as not they will want to claim the spoils of the North.”

“He’s no damned king,” Lord Forrester claimed. “Only a half-wildling they should have smothered at birth.”

Grimacing, Steffon ignored the words in favour of speaking to the First Ranger.

“How many men does Rayder have?”

Benjen Stark’s face turned grimmer, mimicking the look on the faces of the Northerners, and Steffon tensed in preparation.

“At best we assume he has near a hundred thousand,” he told them.

“There are a hundred thousand Wildlings living beyond the Wall?” Uncle Tyrion asked in surprise.

“More than that,” Benjen claimed. “That number is how many of them Mance has managed to gather under one banner.”

_Gods, the North was going to shit and Father wants to take their Lord Paramount and leave a six and ten year old green boy in charge_, he thought.

Ignoring that he himself was a green boy – and truly untested in battle or ruling – Steffon pressed, “Why now? What is forcing them to gather when they are more like to kill each other on a good day?”

Benjen Stark looked at Steffon, grey eyes searching before he came to a decision. “There have been rumours of dark things rising in the far North. Rangers disappearing without a trace and abandoned villages of Wildlings with no evidence of a massacre.”

“The deserters,” Robb Stark added, a slightly disturbed look on his face. “They all claim to have seen the same thing; the Others and undead beings.”

Steffon felt himself stiffen, his body unnaturally still as he stared almost desperately at Benjen Stark.

Blue eyes flashed coldly in his mind, and Steffon fought to ignore the memory of an undead army marching south.

_These dreams can’t have meant anything_, he thought anxiously.

_The glass candles haven’t lit up in years_, he recalled Malora Hightower saying. Magic was returning to Westeros in greater quantities, though at what price he did not know.

“What, those things? Aren’t they tales to scare misbehaving children? Next you will tell us that grumpkins and snarks are like to exist,” Uncle Tyrion laughed.

None of the Northerners were laughing, and Tyrion’s laughter died down suddenly as he stated, “Those things are mere tales.”

“Why do you think the Wall was built?” Daryn Hornwood scoffed, brown eyes glaring at Tyrion in light of his mockery.

“If I could ask Bran the Builder I would, but alas it is just we mere mortals that remain, thousands of years later,” Tyrion drawled.

“Tales they may be yet we have only dark stirrings north of the Wall,” Lord Stark cut in, a frown on his grim face. “Lord Commander Mormont writes of increased sightings for the past fortnight.”

“These raids,” Joffrey pressed, leaning forward to pin Lord Stark with his green eyes. “How far south have they gone?”

“We’ve clashed with a few near Deepwood Motte,” Lord Glover mentioned.

“Aye, and near Torrhen’s Square as well,” a Tallhart added. Steffon could not tell if it was the lord or his brother.

“Just this past sennight there were deserters that managed to escape into the Wolfswood,” Robb Stark told them, river blue eyes dark.

“They are moving quickly,” Steffon noted.

“Raids of small parties can slip by the Watch,” Benjen added. “We’re not as well manned as we were.”

“You can have your pick of any dungeons as we head South Ned,” Father stated. “Should the Wildlings raid again while we are here, a riding will be necessary to root them out. The contract the imp wrote out will be finalized when we arrive at King’s Landing.”

The King stood, the rest of the room rising as Robert made his way outside with Lord Stark, Uncle Jaime following after him.

Steffon lingered as Uncle Tyrion attempted to gain the maester’s attention. “He does remember that as King he can will things done,” Joff muttered. “More so now that his Hand is next to him.

“He must have forgotten after a sip of this ale. Tastes like piss in a bucket,” Tyrion derided.

“Why do you know what watered piss tastes like Uncle?” Steffon asked with a teasing grin, laughing as the halfman waddled away to speak with the maester.

Robb Stark was making his way to Steffon as Joffrey nudged him lightly. “You look pale,” he muttered.

“I’m fine Joff,” Steff replied lowly, ignoring the probing look on his brother’s face. “Gods, you Northerners must hate the sight of ravens.”

“Aye, dark wings dark words in true,” Robb answered. His blue eyes were serious, a hard glint in them as he glanced between the two. “I thank you, Your Graces.”

“What for?” Steffon asked nonchalantly.

“Many would dismiss Wildlings as a Northern threat,” he replied. “I am sure the other lords are glad to see the interest of our royal family.”

“The King is the Protector of the Realm,” Steff stated, “and the North is as much a part of it as the rest.”

Robb Stark gave him a slightly wry smile in response before he bowed and left them.

“Gods, even _he_ has noticed Father’s wandering attentions,” Steff muttered to Joffrey. King Robert would be planning a hunt with his friend, in spite of the dark tidings that had reached them. "Take all the dregs of the dungeons when the Northerners consider serving at the Wall an honourable cause."

“A good thing then, that their prince has shown himself more able and willing to listen,” Joff murmured wittily.

Steffon sent a sharp look at his brother, conscious of the watching eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not quite evening, but if I edited any more it would be longer than it currently is. Next chapter will cover the rest of their trip North.


	3. The First Stumble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steffon meets an odd boy; Robert makes a decision; Ned Stark faces another choice; Jon says farewell.

**Steffon III:**

The dreams had returned viciously, the words of the Northerners triggering memories he had feared to see, memories he could never recall seeing.

It was war; everything he knew would lead to war, every action Steffon had taken to possibly limit it all. There was something greater coming, sending his magic humming in anticipation the likes of which he had not felt in years.

_He was in a clearing, once more wearing the face of Harry Potter as ghosts danced in front of him. A raspy voice whispered in a trance, “…the one with the power to vanquish…” before they disappeared in wisps of smoke._

_He was pulled suddenly into another clearing, a grove of weirwood trees in front as a flock of ravens fluttered past. There remained a single raven, perched atop the largest weirwood._

_Strangely, Steffon saw that it had three eyes, all focused intently on his face before it cawed, “North. North. North.”_

_Steffon jerked as he arrived in the midst of a blizzard, his vision obscured in a hail of white before he saw the glint of movement. The snow cleared, and arrayed before Steffon was an army of undead soldiers._

_He blinked, before suddenly he found himself watching as a roaring inferno ripped through the ranks of the undead, a great storm of ice and snow rising in an attempt to smother it._

_There was a man dressed in black, a cowl covering his face as he charged at a creature of ice. The creature pushed forth, his spear suddenly embedded deep in the man._

_Blue flashed in his vision, and Steffon flinched at the sight of his father’s stormy eyes clouded in anger before they shifted, a malevolent glint in eyes as cold as ice._

Always, he woke at the sight of those eyes. That first night, Steffon had lashed out with his magic, terror propelling him to defend against an unseen foe as the candles had burst into flame, the corner of the tapestry on the wall nearly catching on fire.

Twice he had dreamt of those monsters – of the army of the dead he had fervently prayed was a part of his imagination – before following a sudden urge to make his way out of his stifling room.

Ser Arys had been stationed outside his door, the knight jerking in surprise as Steffon hurried to the courtyard. He let his feet carry him across the courtyard, tracing a path aimlessly before he found himself stood at the entrance to the godswood. Ser Arys was staring in outright bewilderment, the man concerned over the state of Steffon as he ordered, “Keep watch, Ser. I wish to be undisturbed.”

Not waiting for an answer, Steffon walked deeper into the godswood, his magic pulling him to the great weirwood with it’s drooping face. As he watched, sap spilt forward, the face wrought with what looked like tears.

There was power here, an ancient thing rooted deep in the land. Steff had felt traces of it in Storm’s End; something familiar and old calling to him, but all he saw now was the peace of the godswood.

It was something he had missed. He had not known peace since that night at Casterly Rock; every action had been governed by the fear of his father should he ever discover the truth, and Steffon despaired at the thought of facing another unknown threat to the North. _My family or my people_, he thought. _Duty to kin or kingdom; whichever I choose the outcome shall be war_.

“You’ve met the raven,” a voice broke the stillness.

Steffon reeled in surprise, his words failing him as he stared at the younger boy.

He was pale – nearly translucent – with red-brown hair and had deep circles beneath his eyes. If Steffon’s eyes shone as if they were fresh cut jewels, this boy had eyes that were the opposite; a green so deep it was like looking into an unending pool.

“What?” Steffon croaked, throat dry as he stared warily at the boy who made his way closer.

He stopped before the weirwood, his eyes absently staring at the carved face before he spoke. “I dreamed of you. When I was a child the raven came to me, and he showed me a boy with green eyes and the mark of death.”

Sucking in a sharp breath, Steffon watched as the boy turned to him with a solemn gaze.

“I've not met any ravens,” Steffon told him.

“Three-eyes he has, and he comes when you dream,” the boy said, and at the knowing look in his eyes Steffon felt tendrils of dread take root.

“I do—”

“North,” he said, eyes pinning Steffon. “You must go further north.”

Anger filled him and Steffon snapped “I cannot prance around the kingdoms on the words of a dream.”

Once, he had done so in another life and it had cost him. Steffon had far more to lose in this lifetime.

“You must,” the boy insisted, stepping closer even as Steffon reached for the dagger he kept with him. He was not much of a threat to him physically, small and slight as he was, but Steffon had experienced strange things in the North that left him wary.

“And why must I do such a thing?” Steffon growled lowly, eyes hard as he stared down at this impertinent child.

“You’ve forced them south,” the boy said. “You know it, I can tell. You felt the change, heard Benjen Stark’s words. _A fortnight_,” he emphasized. “All it took was your coming to push them south.”

Steffon stilled in horror at those words, mouth moving but not a sound leaving him. He _had_ noticed the words, had ignored them as mere coincidence. Steffon stepping foot in the North had nothing to do with these Wildlings moving south – with them being _pushed_ south.

“That has nothing to do with me!” Steffon hissed, grabbing the boy by the collar of his tunic. His dagger pressed against the boy’s ribs, but he did not tremble in fear.

“It does,” the boy continued, uncaring of the apparent danger he was in. “There is something coming that you cannot afford to ignore.”

“Aye, dragons and cutthroats and a damned kingdom to hold together,” Steffon spat. “Don’t tell me I should ignore my duties on the whims of a _seer_.” He shoved the younger boy away from him, seething at the audacity.

“Death is what awaits you in the South,” the boy stated bluntly, green eyes piercing Steffon’s with the gaze of an old wise man. “Death and ruin to your House, Prince Steffon.”

Steffon flinched minutely, the memories of the glass candle returning to him. “You would rather I face more death in the North,” he sneered.

“Choose wisely, Your Grace,” the boy stated solemnly.

“Death and more death,” Steffon replied sardonically. “Or would it be undeath? Whatever it is, the choice is no true one at all.”

He turned to the weirwood, the desolate face staring glumly at him. Even here, the whispers of the forest were eerily quiet, as if they too were awaiting Steffon’s decision.

“Will I die in the South?” Steffon asked the boy. He was some sort of seer – had to be with his assured utterances – and Steffon was more than leery of relying on the words of seers, even if the greenseers of old supposedly had better understanding of their gifts than those he had known.

“Most likely,” the boy whispered reluctantly.

“And should I go north of the Wall?”

He was quiet for some time, only the sound of their breaths disturbing the still air. “I cannot see,” he finally admitted.

A dark smile touched Steffon’s lips as he turned from the weirwood, green eyes locked onto the darker ones of the younger boy.

“I do not fear death,” Steffon told him, recalling the moment he had once greeted it. They were old friends, he and death, and Steffon had no intention of meeting it so soon.

“Then I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, Prince Steffon,” the boy whispered, a pale look on his face.

* * *

He had managed to wait a day more before the urge to clobber his father nearly overcame him.

The Northerners had remained silent; eyes grim and assessing as they watched their king go about his life as if there were not a threat to their very lives gathering north of the Wall, pushing for a hunt as if he were living in the Vale once more.

Thankfully, there had not been a whore in the king’s chambers when Steffon had barged in, but the man was stirring from a drunken sleep.

“Curse you, boy. What do you want at this ungodly hour?” the king groaned, his furs tangled about his legs.

Steffon rolled his eyes as the king rolled in his bed, his stomach hanging from beneath his undershirt as he stumbled out of his bed. Walking to the small table placed near the hearth, Steffon poured a cup of water for his father, handing it to the king when he came closer. Robert pulled a face of disgust, drowning the cup before reaching for ale.

Steffon reached out quickly, hand grabbing his father’s wrist.

Robert stilled in surprise, stormy eyes locked onto his own as he muttered lowly, “You had better have good reason for this.”

“We must speak, Father, and I would have you pay close attention to what I say,” Steffon responded just as lowly, eyes flashing darkly.

Arriving at the North had changed something in him, had awakened the latent magic he had for years felt as if were just out of reach. The comet had been the final gasp, the breaking of chains that held his magic at bay, and Steffon felt the thrum of his magic every moment, felt it rear forth when he woke in a panic from the nightmares. Twice, Ser Arys had nearly broken his door down at the sound of clatters coming from Steffon’s chambers when he inevitably found himself responding in anger to the persistent calls to go north.

At the king’s nod, Steffon threw himself into a chair, eyes staring unseeing at the flames. In his head, he could imagine reaching out to grab hold of the fire, whether with his hand or magic, and Steffon forced the thought away.

“You look like shit,” the king said, his chair creaking as he took a seat.

“Lord Stark cannot come south to be your Hand,” Steffon stated, lifting his gaze to meet his fathers. Predictably, Robert Baratheon’s blue eyes flashed with anger at his son’s audacity. Steffon had pushed many ideas forth, but never had he gainsaid his father’s decisions.

“The North can be overrun at any moment Father,” Steffon pressed, leaning forward in his chair.

“There’s a giant wall between those bloody Wildlings and them,” Robert scoffed. “It can keep for years more.”

“And the ones who _have_ made it past?” Steffon demanded.

“Small ridings,” Robert retorted, “if that, considering it was likely groups of them.”

“How long until they find a way past the Wall? The Night’s Watch is not infallible Your Grace,” Steffon countered.

“Bah! They aren’t, you’re damn right about that much. A hundred thousand Wildlings,” Robert scoffed, hand reaching for more water. “No man would be able to gather that many, and those cucks up there must have lost their wits to the cold to think it possible.”

“The Night’s Watch are the only ones who truly know exactly how large a threat the North faces,” Steffon said. “I’d rather Benjen Stark’s overestimation than the consideration the South gives to those beyond the Wall.”

“Ned will be coming south, and my word on that is final,” his father warned.

Closing his eyes in frustration, Steffon could feel the itch to release his rage. _Ours Is The Fury_, and since his powers had returned to him Steff had fought viciously with himself to keep it in check.

“You condemn your friend’s family and people to death so you can relive your glory days,” Steffon said calmly.

He was pushing his father too far, but Robert was stuck in the past and unable to see beyond the need to have his immediate needs gratified.

“Watch your tone, boy,” Father warned lowly, and Steffon could feel the last bits of restraint straining to break.

“There are thousands of Wildlings marching on the Wall and you wish to go off gallivanting with the Warden of the North,” Steffon snapped. Dimly, he was aware of the flames growing slightly, but he was too far-gone to do anything about it.

“All the Stark bannermen are present to see you demand him south. If he should go then the man might very well condemn his family to losing their position if not their bloody lives.”

At that moment, a sharp knock of the door followed by Ser Boros sticking his head in heralded the arrival of Ned Stark to the king’s chambers.

The man looked as grim faced as ever, though he hesitated at seeing Steffon in the room.

“Your Grace, Prince Steffon,” he acknowledged. “I can return at a more appropriate time.”

“No need Lord Stark,” Steffon said coolly, gaze focused on his father. “The King and I were in need of your opinion on certain matters.”

Father was scowling, but Steffon was beyond caring. He had dark circles under his eyes, his sleep disturbed by nightmares not of his making and his days spent trying to discover more of this unknown threat. Eight thousand years had passed since the Others had been destroyed, and Steff raged at the thought of his being a tool for the fates.

“Your bannermen,” Robert said as Lord Stark took his seat.

Lord Stark’s face remained a grim mask as he replied, “They are understandably concerned, Your Grace.”

Pursing his lips, Steffon watched his father’s face twitch slightly.

“The Wildlings?”

“Not just that,” Ned admitted, glancing hesitantly at Steffon. “My son Robb is but six and ten, and leaving the North in his hands at a time like this is…”

“Lord Stark,” Steffon cut in quietly, waiting until grey eyes focused on his. “What would the reaction of your lords be were you to come south?”

A grimace was his only reply, and before Steffon could add any more he saw his father’s face harden in stubbornness.

“Insubordination against their liege is an affront that will be treated as treason,” the king said.

“Internal matters of a kingdom are oft left to the ruling lords, Robert,” Lord Stark reminded his friend, but Steffon knew it would be a futile argument. Robert Baratheon had little joy in his life – as much as that thought rankled at times – and his father yearned for a past that he associated with better days. He would not allow his friend to escape his promise.

“You swore to do your duty to your king,” Father replied gruffly, a dark look in his eyes.

“And I have a duty to my people as well,” Ned Stark retorted. “After all they have done for my House, I cannot leave them to this, Your Grace. What kind of Warden would I be if I left them to face this threat without me?”

_One like to face rebellion_, Steffon thought grimly. Not even Father had been free of that, he knew. Lord Paramount and unwilling to do his duty, Steffon had been surprised more houses had not refused to follow their liege to battle during the Rebellion.

“Seven take you Ned,” Robert grumbled. “If you refuse the position I’ll pin the damned thing on Jaime Lannister.”

Steff’s eyes widened in surprise, and then horror at seeing the seriousness in his father’s gaze.

Ned Stark looked aghast, and Steffon saw him hesitantly glance at him before saying, “Lannister is a sworn Kingsguard.”

_And also fucking your wife_, Steffon thought sardonically. _Seven hells, but the king was trying to kill himself much quicker than the alcohol would._

“Give him an army,” Steffon blurted.

Twin gazes of surprise landed on him, though Steffon saw a hint of unease in Lord Stark’s eyes.

“Not Uncle Jaime,” he clarified. “If you will not allow Lord Stark to resign his post, give him an army to take to the Wall.”

To his bewilderment, his father began to chuckle at his words. “An army? How in the seven hells am I to do that?”

“You are the king,” Steffon stated dryly. “And certainly not the first to do so.” At his father’s blank look, Steffon once more cursed Jon Arryn for the utterly abysmal education he had allowed a future Lord Paramount get by with.

“Your own grandfather took command of the King’s armies during the War of the Ninepenny Kings,” he told his father, ignoring the flash of distaste in Robert’s eyes. “Aenys Targaryen did not fight his wars on his own, and Baelor Breakspear led his father’s armies during the Blackfyre Rebellions.

‘Those were considered threats to the entirety of the kingdoms,” Father rebutted, and Steffon resisted the urge to knock his head against the wall.

“If the North is overrun with Wildlings then it becomes a problem for the kingdoms,” Lord Stark countered, grey eyes hard as he stared at his foster brother. “A hundred thousand is not something the North alone can handle.”

Were it appropriate, Steffon would have cheered at the man’s conviction. His father despised conflict that could not be handled with his warhammer – was averse to it when those closest to him were involved – and he would not remain stubborn in the face of their joint efforts. _Surely not_, Steff thought.

“What would you have me do?”

Before Lord Stark could say anything, Steffon cut in, “Write a royal order, declaring an emergency at the Wall. Have each of the lords send some of their forces.”

“And cause widespread uproar,” Father said, “they’ll kill me in my sleep.”

“I cannot take all of my bannermen to the Wall,” Lord Stark told him. “I will not leave the North vulnerable, nor can I ask men to fight and leave them unable to collect the harvests.”

“And I cannot leave the kingdoms vulnerable should those damned dragons come calling,” Father snapped.

“I am not requesting all of the kingdoms armies come north, Your Grace, but a token force will be necessary,” Lord Stark responded. Steffon watched the man shift forward, his eyes cool and serious as he stared at the king. “Robert, should the North be overrun with Wildlings you will _have_ to send an army here. You lessen the risks by providing support for the wall.”

“Seven hells, Ned,” Father grumbled, shifting his gaze to Steff. “I suppose you agree with him.”

“If you wish to avoid potential rebellion then yes, Father. I do,” Steffon said, ignoring Lord Stark’s sour look at the possibility.

“The Northerners would not rebel,” Stark protested. “Winter is coming, and we have no time for petty squabbles.”

_Not now, perhaps. But the North Remembers_, Steffon thought. For Robert they might still their hand out of respect for their liege, but his sons were not the same.

“Very well,” the king grunted. “Draw up whatever papers you need and I’ll sign them. Your daughters are coming south as well.”

“They will, as will my son Brandon,” Lord Stark agreed.

“Wants to be a knight does he,” Father stated. “We can find him someone to squire for.”

“He can squire for me,” Steffon stated. “I’ve not taken on a squire, my lord, but it is perhaps expected that I choose soon. Your son can serve as my squire, and none would deny that as the son of a Great House Brandon is unsuitable, nor would he be as the brother of my betrothed.”

“There, that solves that,” Father agreed. “Now get me a bloody drink and we can celebrate furthering our ties.”

* * *

“Lord Stark,” Steffon greeted as the door to the solar opened. They had agreed to meet after he spoke with those lords whose lands lay furthest north, and Steffon had brought Tyrion with him. Joff had remained behind with the other boys, and in a moment of spite had requested Uncle Jaime guard him when he was not with the king.

“Prince Steffon, Lord Tyrion,” the man replied. He had to give him credit; Eddard Stark had shown only minimal displeasure when around Tyrion, better able to hide his distaste for Lannisters than when he was near Ser Jaime.

The solar was a relatively large room, practically Spartan in decoration. His father’s solar had shown signs of being lived in – despite how infrequently the king performed his duties – with trinkets on his desk and rich tapestries. Lord Stark had kept his rooms simples, bar the tapestries depicting ancient Kings of Winter, but his desk was overly large and able to accommodate several people.

On one side stood the maester of the castle, Luwin, the old man draped in a thick woollen cloak with the chains of his office.

“Your Grace, my lord. Please, be seated.”

Steffon took his seat, noting with only slight surprise that Lord Stark’s heir would partake in their talks. _Perhaps he wishes to prepare him_, Steff decided.

“I have spoken to both Lords Karstark and Umber,” Ned Stark began. “Their lands are in the most danger from Wildling raids, and each lord cannot afford to send more than a token force to the Wall in the event that others make it past.”

“How well provisioned are they?” Steffon asked.

“The Northerners prepare for the harvest every year, my prince,” Maester Luwin added. “With the long summer, we are anticipating a particularly hard winter.”

“The North typically does not use the food collected for the harvest,” Lord Stark continued. “If we are to feed an army at the Wall we need find another source of food.”

_The Reach_, Steffon thought, but that avenue had been closed to them. The king could order them to supply the Wall but it would come at a price.

“A treaty will have to be arranged for the Reach to provide food to the North,” Uncle Tyrion said. “An arrangement between the Crown, most like, so that they do not charge you a fortune in transportation.”

The Starks shared a look before Robb Stark said, “There is another option.”

Lord Stark was frowning in displeasure – or at least, Steffon assumed he was for his face remained grim but for the slight downturn of his lips – and Steff leaned back in anticipation. “Another option?”

“The lands north of Last Hearth,” Robb continued, determinedly ignoring his father’s look. “The lands of The Gift were granted to the Wall, but with the raids there have been no smallfolk to till it, nor has it been of much use with a severely undermanned Night’s Watch.”

“You want King Robert to return those lands to the North,” Uncle Tyrion guessed, staring at Robb Stark shrewdly.

“They cannot be returned to House Stark,” the maester cut in. “Only with the agreement of the Watch.”

“Would Lord Commander Mormont agree?” Steffon asked curiously. “What sort of land are we considering?”

“Brandon’s Gift has been with the Wall for thousands of years. But the lands surrounding Queenscrown are workable and can yield enough to feed the Watch,” Ned Stark admitted.

“That is out of the Crown’s jurisdiction, Lord Stark as I’m sure you are aware,” Uncle Tyrion added. “Perhaps some sort of middle ground.”

There was a slight twitch to Robb Stark’s jaw – _a point of contention between father and son_ – and Steffon filed the thought away for later consideration.

“A middle ground?” Lord Stark asked suspiciously.

“Maester Luwin, how many men man the Watch?” Steff asked.

“Less than a thousand, spread between three castles,” he replied.

_More grim tidings_, Steffon thought sourly.

“The Night’s Watch is not likely to give up those lands,” Uncle Tyrion pointed out. “Not unless there is some benefit to them.”

“They have Brandon’s Gift,” Robb Stark replied.

“Aye, but the New Gift is the better prospect and most like to have better lands,” Steffon stated.

“They will need people to work the lands,” Maester Luwin conceded. “More than the smallfolk at Mole’s Town.”

“How many smallfolk are the Umbers willing to provide?” Tyrion questioned.

“Enough, but they will expect a share of it,” came the reply.

“Send for farmers from across the North, my lord. That way no one bannerman can claim favouritism in the Gift. We will have to send ravens to Castle Black, but the promise of extra provisions at no cost to the Wall should sway the Lord Commander.”

“No cost but for the loss of his lands,” Lord Stark pointed out.

“Not a loss,” Steff rebutted. “A mere exchange. Better that the land is used to feed the brothers than to leave it unattended for the lack of men.”

“I imagine Lord Commander Mormont would be grateful to not have to feed those additional mouths you will be bringing north,” Uncle Tyrion quipped.

Ned Stark merely nodded his agreement as his maester drafted a note to Castle Black.

“I will, of course, be heading north to the Wall alongside your brother,” Uncle Tyrion added.

“What business do you have at the Wall?”

“The business of interest. I merely wanted to see one of the wonders of the known world,” Tyrion answered.

“In addition,” Steffon added, “my uncle will be taking note of any extra concerns the Watch would like to bring before the King.”

“The Watch usually sends a man to do so,” Lord Stark told him.

“I’m sure they do, but we will need someone who has worked with the council to provide their own observations,” Steffon countered. “I imagine you wish to do the same with your son, Jon?”

Lord Stark’s eyes tightened slightly at the mention of his bastard, and Steffon made note to mention it to Joff. He had not believed his brother when he stated his worry over Jon Snow being sent to the Wall as a punishment. The older boy was a Northerner; doubtless he saw some honour in taking a position with the Watch. But Joffrey had persisted, and any doubts Steffon had over his brother’s friendship clouding his judgment were falling in the face of Lord Stark’s obvious reaction.

“What of him?” he asked, sending a sharp look at his son. Robb Stark’s eyes flashed in anger, though he admirably kept his mouth shut.

“I assume that is why he is being sent north. With your brother being First Ranger you would need someone else to report back to Winterfell. Father sees the necessity and has agreed,” Steffon answered.

“The King has agreed to send Jon as a representative to the Watch?” Lord Stark asked sceptically.

_Not yet, though he will when it is offered_, Steffon thought, smiling slightly at the Northerners.

Unsurprisingly, Robb Stark seemed slightly relieved at those words. Steffon couldn’t imagine his brother being sent to the Wall while he lived the life of a royal prince. _Nor will that day ever come_, he promised.

“He has,” Uncle Tyrion nodded, and Steffon was thankful the man was so quick to catch on.

“A good position, however young Jon wished to take the Black,” Maester Luwin told them.

“Perhaps it can wait,” Robb added. “At least until we are more aware of the situation.”

“Indeed. Once you arrive with your army, Lord Stark, there will be no need for your son to not take his vows,” Uncle Tyrion continued.

They were silent for several moments, Lord Stark sitting grimly as he thought on their words. Finally, he nodded his agreement, and Steffon internally cheered in relief even as they began to hammer out the agreements.

Eddard Stark would come south and take on the position of Hand. Steffon hoped to send him back within six moons with a small army at his back, long enough for the others to have discovered enough about the Wildling threat.

_And enough time for me to discover the rat in King’s Landing_, he thought darkly.

Joffrey was waiting in his rooms when he returned, and Steffon locked the door before taking a seat at his desk.

“So?” Joff asked almost anxiously.

“He’ll go to the Wall as his brother’s man,” Steffon told him.

“And take the black,” Joff answered flatly.

“Not for some time,” Steff said wearily. The North had brought more than enough problems to mind, and the mystery of Jon Snow was something he did not want on his plate. “He’ll wait until his father returns.”

Steffon watched as Joffrey paced his room, boots leaving slight stains on the ash near the hearth.

“He goes south and sends his son to the Wall, the son he has not been most pleased with for the duration of our trip. Does that not strike you as odd?”

“Perhaps you are reading too much into it,” Steffon offered.

“He told me,” Joff glared. “His father has made his opinion on our friendship known.”

“His wife does not like Jon,” Steff pointed out. “She can’t be too happy seeing her husband’s natural son befriending a prince. I told you not to be too obvious.”

“That’s not it,” Joffrey scoffed. “Though the woman shares mother’s _disdain_ for bastard’s.”

“Enough Joff,” Steffon said sharply. “You’ve made your thoughts known.”

“I don’t like it Steff,” Joff told him.

“Nor do I, but that is unfortunately his lot in life,” Steffon replied softly. Seeing Joffrey open his mouth to argue he added, “I’ve done what I can to keep Jon Snow from taking the black, brother. The rest lies with him. He will not come south with us.”

“Nor is Lord Stark like to allow it,” Joffrey muttered.

“We leave in three days,” Steffon reminded him. “Do stop wallowing in anger and enjoy what time we have left here.”

“Very well,” he replied stiffly before leaving his rooms.

Steffon sighed, fingers rubbing at his temples. _Just once_, he thought, _I would like to remove the burden of responsibility_.

* * *

**Jon I:**

They were all to depart at the same time.

The King and his family taking Jon’s father, brother and sisters with them to King’s Landing as he made the trek north to the Wall. Not as a sworn brother though – not yet.

Jon had been as confused as the others when his father had refused to allow him to take the black.

“Not yet,” Father had told him. “I am to go south for some moons, until I can gather enough men to man the Wall. Robb will need someone to help him. Someone who can easily travel between Castle Black and Winterfell, who can act as his voice should the need arise.”

When Jon had protested, Father had placed two scrolls in his hands. All breath had left him at the sight of the seal, the crowned stag visible in the black wax.

“Father,” he whispered in confusion. He could not have; Lady Stark was like to have made her opinions known should his lord father have done what he thought. Yet a part of Jon hoped the scroll held notice of his name. No longer a Snow, but a Stark in truth.

“It is signed by both King Robert and Prince Steffon,” his father had said. “Castle Black has received their own copy, but this is to be carried by you.”

His words snuffed the tiniest bit of hope that remained in Jon. “A royal decree, ensuring Castle Black knows you come in good faith as an observer for the Stark in Winterfell with the King’s leave. The second allows our smallfolk to till the lands of the Gift, the bulk going to the Wall to feed the coming army while the rest are prepared for the harvest.”

“Of course, Lord Stark,” he had responded. There was naught else to say; Father would go south to bring an army to the Wall, and Jon would take the black upon his return, when he was no longer needed to play at being a Stark.

He had known bits of that from Robb; the other Northerners had been unhappy at having to kowtow to two green boys, no matter that his brother was of an age to rule in his own stead should the worst happen, but Father had placated them with promises of more men and an opportunity to use The Gift.

Roughly, he tugged on the bridle, his horse whinnying in dissatisfaction. Running a hand through his mane, Jon heard the crunch of footsteps coming closer.

“Any more and your horse might kick you,” Joff’s voice called.

Turning, Jon was greeted with the sight of the golden prince leaning against the stable door, Ghost stood next to him as Joffrey absentmindedly scratched behind his ears.

“You should have come south,” Joff told him, and Jon nearly smiled at the familiar argument.

“I am but a bastard, Your Grace,” he told him.

“Stop that,” Joff scowled, stepping closer. “Your name might be Snow, but you are worth more than many of the cravens in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Yet still a bastard,” Jon said, a serious look in his grey eyes.

It was odd; he was going to miss the younger boy. Jon had been prepared to dislike the princes – had expected they would glower at any they considered beneath them – but Joffrey and Steffon had proven him wrong.

Neither the Queen nor Lady Stark were happy with the odd friendship that had begun in the sparring yard, but Jon could accept that he was glad Joffrey Baratheon was so stubborn.

“I don’t care about that,” Joffrey said softly, a dark look in his eye.

“The world does,” Jon reminded him. “All they will see is a bastard close to the crown and remember the Blackfyres.”

They had tainted his life, those sons of kings who had grasped too far. In the darkest corner of his mind, Jon yearned for Winterfell, wanted the easy acceptance and pride his brother took for granted. Then he would remember the only way he could ever gain his Father’s lands, and shame would fill him at the thought.

_I am the greedy bastard you thought me, Lady Stark_, Jon thought darkly.

“Don’t take the black,” Joff said suddenly, and Jon withheld his sigh of resignation.

“Your Gra—”

“Swear it, Jon,” Joff said, green eyes hard with determination. “Don’t throw your life away amongst those thieves and rapers.”

“My _uncle_ is a brother of the Night’s Watch,” Jon said pointedly.

He turned to his horse, setting the bridle firmly and checking his shoes as Joffrey pouted in the corner.

He was a bastard, the Bastard of Winterfell to the rest of the world, and Joff a prince, second in line to the Iron Throne. As impossible as their short friendship had been, Jon knew the younger boy was naïve to the realities of his birth. Being a prince had blinded him to the truth of the world, believing that his actions would determine how others thought of him.

“I cannot change your mind,” Joffrey finally said.

“No,” Jon replied, stepping away to grab the reigns of his horse. He tugged lightly, leading him out of the stables to the rest of their party.

“I could order them to refuse you,” Joff said lightly.

“But you would not,” Jon retorted, knowing his words to be truth. The Prince was not one to lord his birth over others. Jon had watched him wake early to train in the sparring grounds with his brother, had traded blows with the younger boy countless mornings during the royal visit, and not once had he heard him demand certain things as was his due.

They were closer to red courser Prince Joffrey rode, Prince Steffon turning away from his palfrey when he saw them coming.

“I expect ravens,” Joff practically demanded.

“To keep us apprised of the situation, of course,” Prince Steffon said lightly, a small smirk on his face as he stood next to his brother.

They were as different as two brothers could be – as different as he and Robb were but that they shared the same eyes – bright and steely with the barest hint of something else.

“Farewell, Jon Snow,” Prince Steffon said, a hand outstretched for Jon to clasp. “I wish you well in your endeavours.”

“I thank you, Prince Steffon,” Jon replied, watching green eyes flick over Jon’s shoulder.

Prince Steffon shared a glance with his brother before he turned to face the person stood behind Jon.

“Lord Robb,” he heard him call, stepping away from them. “Is your mother near? I wish to say my farewells.”

Jon watched Steffon lead Robb closer to the other Starks, the prince exchanging words with Lady Stark. Turning back to Joffrey, Jon watched as the prince simply stared at him, some emotion flashing too quickly in his eyes for him to identify.

“Take care Jon,” Joffrey finally said, holding his hand out as his brother had done. They were odd people these two princes, but Jon knew the realm could do no better than them.

“Aye, you as well Joff,” he murmured in response. “I wish you good fortune.”

“You might need it more than I, facing these Wildlings,” Joffrey smirked. “I suppose it’s a good thing you have Ghost with you.”

Jon watched as the wolf butted his head into the prince’s chest, Joff crouching down to pet him even as his Kingsguard hovered nervously.

"Should you ever change your mind," Joffrey said quietly, eyes focused on Ghost. "The King would welcome you."

_You would, but the Southroners think even less of those like me_.

“Jon,” Robb called, and Jon whistled lowly for Ghost to follow as he stepped away, only a nod to Joff letting him know he understood.

He and Robb met in a tangle of arms, slapping his brother on the back as he felt him do the same. They had spent all their years together, the two boys practically twins but that they were born to different stations in life. Jon was glad he would be able to see Robb before committing to the Watch.

“Take care Snow,” Robb said.

“And you, Stark.”

Arya came barrelling forward, the little girl throwing her arms around Jon once more. He had said his farewells in her room, the two closer than the others and despondent at their separation, but this once he held his little sister closer, uncaring of the stares they were bound to get.

“I don’t want you to go,” Arya said with a slight pout.

“You are going to King’s Landing,” he told her, lightly mussing her hair. “And Father has tasked me with aiding Castle Black.”

“Will I see you again?” she asked.

“We might end up at the same castle if the gods will it,” he replied, thinking of Joff’s offer. “Don’t forget to practice.”

“Stick ‘em with the pointy end, I remember.”

Smiling once more, Jon pulled her in for another hug as he murmured, “I’ll miss you.”

“Me too,” she replied, her voice muffled and tinged with sadness.

He let her go, watching as she went to speak to her mother. Jon ignored Lady Stark’s cold glare as Bran came running, a light laugh escaping him at the sight of the excited boy.

“I’ll miss you Jon,” Bran said, flinging his arms round his middle.

“And I you, brother. I’m sure Prince Steffon will be glad to have you for a squire,” Jon told him. The younger Stark had been beaming with joy at the thought of squiring for the prince, knowing it meant he would be trained by members of the Kingsguard as well as Prince Joffrey.

“I’ll come visit the Wall as soon as I’m knighted,” Bran said, and Jon exchanged a quick grin with him as they made their way to the horses.

“Aye, they’ll write songs about you,” Jon told him.

“Or perhaps you, fighting Wildlings at the Wall, like Willem and Artos Stark,” Bran said excitedly. “Or even Bran the Breaker!”

_There are no tales of bastards_, Jon thought, _none to talk of honour and valour, merely their treachery_.

“Aye, mayhaps,” he instead replied.

Shouts rang out across the courtyard, the king making his way to his horse as everyone began to mount up. Jon shared one last hug with Robb.

“Send a raven when you reach Castle Black,” Robb said, blue eyes boring into his.

“Aye, I will. Farewell brother,” Jon said, pulling himself up on his horse.

He would be travelling with Uncle Benjen and Lord Tyrion to the Wall, some Karstark and Umber men joining them. The other lords would be preparing, setting men to keep their castles running as they set to make the journey north once Jon had sent word.

Calls rang out once more, as Jon watched his father mount his horse. The princes fell into place, Steffon’s dark hair surrounded by the gold of his brothers as they rode out of the courtyard.

They were riding to the Kingsroad, the parties splitting off as Jon and his group headed further north.

At the crossroads, for a split moment, he had wanted to ride after his father.

He would see him again in a few moons turn, he knew. Lord Stark had promised to head north, and he did not think Prince Steffon a liar or doubt his intention to send aid. The prince had already proven an altogether different sort of ruler than his father.

_No_, Jon thought. _This might not be the last chance_.

Doubtless Lord Stark would find a way to deflect, as he had for years. He only wished for a name; to know who she was, if she were alive and did she love him. But Jon Snow was the motherless bastard of Eddard Stark, and until he had taken his vows he would remain that.

_When I take the black_, he promised. _I’ll not join the Watch without knowing my mother’s name_.

Turning, Jon caught Joffrey’s eye, the prince raising a hand in farewell. He responded in kind, waiting a moment before he joined the rest of his party.

“I must say young Snow, you certainly have my nephew’s favour,” Lord Tyrion quipped.

“I’m sure that is an overestimate, my lord,” Jon answered stiffly.

“Not at all,” Lord Tyrion replied. “I’ve known Joffrey since he was a child. Very rarely has the boy taken so quickly to any other than his siblings.”

_Nor have I,_ Jon thought. _Perhaps that is something we share_.

“Do you expect to be long at the Wall?” Jon asked, turning his horse to ride next to Lord Tyrion.

“A moon, perhaps more,” he said. “I think I shall find myself longing for the warmth of King’s Landing soon enough.”

Lord Tyrion gave him a small smirk, nudging his horse to catch up with another of the black brothers. Turning one last time, Jon saw the column of riders from the king’s party moving further south, unable to see his family beyond the banners.

_I will see them again, a son and brother they could be proud to call their own_, he thought, turning away to ride beneath the Karstark and Umber banners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not too too happy with this chapter, could probably have been better, but my muse has decided on this much! I'm also travelling for the next little while so replies might be a little sporadic, but I hope to get ch.4 out for Saturday and 5 written at the same time.


	4. The Gathering Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon grows suspicious; Joff learns a new truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Steffon POV this time, but we'll get our first look into Joffrey's mindset, and he will be present.

**Jon II:**

They were thirty men for the final leg of their journey. Lord Umber had taken leave of them for the coming fortnight, he and his men splitting off a day or two prior, the Greatjon ordering his household in preparation for the great ranging that would need to take place.

Officially, Jon was merely an observer; one meant to stay at Castle Black while the other men of the North learned what it was that drove the Wildlings south.

_Snarks and grumpkins_, he thought. _Or something darker_.

He had heard tell of the King’s audience with his lord father’s bannermen. Robb has insisted something needed to be done, scowling in the privacy of his rooms as Father told them he was to go south. Their journey North has been slightly unpleasant; the Greatjon had not liked having to bend to a six and ten year old green boy - even if he were his liege’s heir - and Richard Karstark had pestered Lord Tyrion over their intentions.

A good thing that the dwarf was able to speak on his nephew’s plans. Jon did not know Prince Steffon as well as he did Prince Joffrey, but the younger boy had insisted his brother would do what was needed to ensure the North was not overrun with Wildling hordes.

That they were free to farm The Gift had been enough to stave off Northern anger. Lord Umber had turned to immediately planning for a portion of his men to take part. But the North Remembers, Jon knew, and if the King refused to send the promised army North, he could not say what would happen.

_It were the dragons we married_, he remembered. _And they rewarded near three hundred years of loyalty with dishonour_.

Should the crown prince do as he promised, Jon was certain the Northerners would remain loyal.

“Have you ever been to the Wall, Lord Snow?” Lord Tyrion asked.

“No, my lord,” he answered stiffly.

“Ah,” the man said, cantering his pony closer to Jon. “You dislike when I call you Snow.”

“It is my name,” Jon answered in a flat tone.

“Just as Lannister is mine,” he grinned. Tyrion’s mismatched eyes looked darker in the light, something haunting the man. “Though of course, it is not the same as a bastard name. For all that my name is Lannister, it does not change the fact that I am but a dwarf in their eyes.”

Frowning, Jon moved forward slowly, watching for any cracks in the floor. They were further into the gift, and he had been spending the past days ride looking over the land with his uncle and Lord Tyrion. The other lords would do the same, he knew, but Tyrion Lannister had insisted on his presence so he may report the Crown’s findings to his brother.

“You know nothing of being a bastard,” Jon said hotly, a flush creeping on his face. He had thought himself immune to the taunts, but a prince telling him his worth was meaningless in the face of thousands of years of mistrust.

“All dwarves are bastards in their father’s eyes,” Tyrion quipped darkly.

“And yet you have the protection of the Lannister name,” Jon retorted.

“Just as you have the protection of the Stark looks,” Tyrion countered.

Jon felt his lips twist. _A curse, more like_, he thought. Jon was proud of having the Stark look, would have been gladder still but that it marked him differently. A shame that the stain on Lord Eddard’s honour should look so like him, so very much of the North when his trueborn heir had the Southron colouring of his mother.

“Listen closely, Snow. You are a bastard, there is no escaping that truth. When a man hears your name, he’ll look to you with suspicion, as all our septons have been telling us of the greed of bastards since we were old enough to understand. Wear it as armour, and none can harm you with their words.”

"Just as you wear yours?" he retorted.

"Exactly," Tyrion said, a bitter twist to his lips. "People see a dwarf and assume him to be a lecherous mummer with a fondness for drinks."

“Prince Joffrey thinks differently,” Jon pointed out.

“That is because I happen to be my nephews’ favoured uncle,” Tyrion laughed. “With competition such as my brother and Stannis and Renly, I dare say that’s quite the achievement.”

Glancing up, Jon could vaguely make out the top of the Wall. He had thought to see it earlier, but as far north as they were the trees covered it still.

“Come along, Snow,” Tyrion said, nudging his pony forwards. “I’d like your opinion on this excellent piece of land.”

A more sneeringly sarcastic individual Jon has never met, but he appreciated the man’s at times harsh honesty. Nevertheless, he knew his uncle could barely tolerate the Lannister man, so Jon followed after to keep him busy.

Once, the lands of Brandon’s Gift had been divvied up between the various holdfasts along the Wall. With winters and the dwindling number of men joining the Night’s Watch, Alysanne’s Gift has been the first bits of land deserted by the black brothers. That the land was better than the old gift was not in question; countless lords had petitioned to have parts of the New Gift repatriated to the North, each man wanting Queenscrown granted to their second sons as thanks for years of loyalty, but the dragons had been smart to tie it to the Watch, and no Lord Commander wanted to be known as the man who lost The Gift.

_It will serve as Bran’s keep once he earns his spurs_, he thought. _Or Rickon, if Lord Stark wished_. A part of Jon twisted at the refusal he had given. Knighthood would grant him another name - one he could use to remove the taint of bastardy. But it was one name he wanted above all, and Jon knew his father would not grant it to him. Not when the King had come to Winterfell and he had not been legitimized. A bastard could have honour at the Watch, and Jon would make it so once he had completed the task Lord Stark had set him.

It was his northern blood that had convinced Lord Commander Mormont. A Stark requesting the Watch to grant use of the lands to their benefit meant more than the words of a King that knew nothing of the North. That Robert Baratheon had, from what Jon could tell, been pressured to give these concessions by his heir cemented Jon’s disappointment in the Demon of the Trident.

He did not see a King when he had looked at him, no matter the crown on his head. Prince Steffon was the ruling power in the South, it had been whispered, and Jon was inclined to agree once he had seen the prince.

They were welcomed into Queenscrown by a small garrison of brothers. No more than ten, from what he could tell.

“Who’s on watch?” Uncle Benjen asked the leader. The man wore the black uniform of the brotherhood, with a long thin scar that cut across his face. A sword had nearly taken his eye out, from the looks of it, and the man had been lucky to come away with both eyes intact.

“Tarly,” the man spat. “We’ve given him a bow. Let’s hope the boy remembers how to use it,” he laughed.

“And the rookery? Maester Aemon sent the boy to take care of the ravens,” Benjen frowned.

“Aren’t any ravens come this way in some time,” the man answered. “They’ve been held at the Fist, from what we here. No raiding parties in a week.”

Frowning, Jon exchanged an uneasy glance with his uncle.

They had expected raiders to cross paths with them, knowing that they had been active for the weeks the King had spent in Winterfell. The Watch has been on high alert, the garrison at Queenscrown tripled during the royal visit and a rook master installed to send word swiftly to the closest castles. Had they ventured past Queenscrown, Jon knew the Umber men could have lost them in the Wolfswood, and his father would have been forced to show the King.

“No matter,” Benjen said. “We’ve brought farmers with us. Men from Wintertown and Long Lake to help start the harvest. The rest of us ride for Castle Black at first light.”

“First light?” Tyrion said, slightly aghast. “Surely there’s no need for such haste.”

“Perhaps for you, Lord Tyrion,” Benjen responded, eyes cold with slight disdain. “I am First Ranger. There are other things to do than sleep in a featherbed.”

“Ha! Ain’t got nun of ‘em ‘ere,” another man laughed. “This ‘ere is Watch territory. Not a bloody inn.”

“Where is your rookery?” Jon asked.

“Come,” Benjen said. “I’ll take you.”

He left Tyrion with a short nod, the man moving closer to the hearth with a wineskin. Where he had got it from, Jon knew not, but the man appeared well-stocked with wine. They cut across a small drawbridge, the tower connected to the main keep. It was less a singular tower; the rookery looked well-kept, a single door the only entry to this part of the tower. There were rooms downstairs, a long stair leading into darkness where Jon assumed the maester’s rooms were.

“You are close with Lord Tyrion,” his uncle said, climbing the steps two at a time.

“He can send us the men we need,” Jon answered.

Sighing, Uncle Benjen pointed to the desk. Scrolls littered the top, mixing with books that had been left open. There was a library here, he knew. One filled with books in the Old Tongue and High Valyrian, though Jon had no knowledge of either language.

“Your Father is bow Hand of the King,” Uncle Benjen reminded him.

“Aye, and you’ve seen the King,” Jon countered.

“Careful lad,” he warned. “You’ve not sworn any vows.”

Jon nodded in chagrin. They might be alone, but he knew any whispers could be carried south. “Lord Tyrion holds the ear of the Crown Prince.”

“Aye, and you’ve grown close to his other nephew,” Benjen replied.

Pursing his lips, Jon let his eyes fall across the wide expanse of land that he could see. This far north, he had expected it to be filled with snow, but other than a light dusting from the previous snowfall the land was relatively green. Winter was coming; they could tell from the change in the air, but the gods must favour them for the raven had not come yet. Summer was waning rapidly, yet he expected they could make a proper harvest until winter came in full.

“Prince Joffrey was being kind,” Jon answered quietly. “I’ve not the sort of influence his uncle would have, and the princes spoke highly of him.”

“Lannisters,” he said with a slight grimace. “I like it not - Ned even less - but if we are to stand a chance, let us hope your prince is more honourable than his kin.”

Frowning, Jon stared blankly at the book in front of him. He had spent less than a moon in the prince’s company, sparring against him every morning before their families stirred from slumber. He could only pray that he had taken the measure of him, lest the North find themselves threatened from both sides.

“We have no other choice,” he said after some time.

Clattering from the stairs reached them, and Benjen clapped a hand on Jon’s shoulder in farewell.

“Oh,” said a young man in surprise. “I did not expect anyone to be here.”

“Just heading out, Sam,” Uncle Benjen said. “Best send that raven, Jon. Let Robb know you’re almost safely to the Wall.”

“Aye,” Jon replied.

With a short nod to the boy, Jon was left alone to scrawl a short message to his brother, his uncle making his way to the commons to speak with his men.

“You’re Lord Stark’s son,” he said. “I’m Samwell Tarly, but everybody calls me Sam.”

“Jon Snow,” Jon introduced, finishing the scroll and wrapping it tightly. The boy, Sam, was watching Jon with brown eyes. He was larger than most men he had seen in his life- though not half as large as Lord Manderly - with floppy brown hair and the air of a person uncomfortable in his skin.

“Do you mind sending the raven?” Jon asked, gesturing to the scroll in hand.

“Oh, right,” Sam mumbled, flushing as he made his way forward. “To Winterfell, then.”

“Aye. Winterfell,” Jon confirmed. There were only three ravens in the rookery; a pittance, compared to most holdfasts that had a tower, but the Night’s Watch could not spare the men or the ravens to man a castle as large as this.

“Will you be long up at the Wall?” Sam asked. “Only, the brothers made mention that you were going beyond to see what caused the Free Folk to come south.”

“Free Folk?” Jon questioned, a curious look on his face.

“T-th-the Wildlings,” he stammered. “I’ve heard they call themselves Free Folk, since they don’t bend the knee.”

He chuckled lightly, and Jon watched with furrowed brows as Sam avoided his gaze, attaching the scroll to the raven and sending it off.

“You’ve met them,” Jon said. “These Wildlings; you’ve spoken to them.”

Sam stammered, mumbling his words as Jon watched impassively. “There’s a Wildling man, Crastor. He helps the Watch from time to time. He’s the one who told me.”

_He was lying_, Jon knew. Sam was busying himself with the scrolls on the table, placing what books he had in their proper place, but Jon had the sense that the Tarly knew more than he was willing to say.

“Have the books helped any?” He tried.

“Y-yes,” Sam answered, a bit startled. “Well, no, no n-not really. You see these ones,” he said, pointing to a stack to his left, “they’re in High Valyrian. Maester Aemon will be translating them, see what it can tell us of the Wall. Those ones,” he pointed at the older books that looked like journals, the binding bold and tough, “those are in the Old Tongue.”

_From before the Targaryens_, was the unspoken addition. They had banned use of the language of the First Men, but Jon knew there were those in the North who still spoke and understood the language. The Mountains Clans, the Skagosi, and small pockets of villages that held tightly to the old stories. Old Nan had told them of places in the North where it was still understood; near three centuries had passed and the old tales were passed down by mouth, none in the North daring to continue writing the runes in fear of the dragons.

“The runes are useless,” Jon told him. “The North no longer writes in the Old Tongue.”

Sam looked as if he wanted to add something, but Jon eventually let off once it was clear the boy would speak no longer.

“Why learn of the Wall?” Jon asked in confusion. “What’s the point?”

“Because,” Samwell spoke, a grim undertone in his voice. “Because Night gathers, and that Wall is a shield for something.”

A cold draft blew through the open window; despite having lived in the North his entire life, Jon felt a chill in his spine.

* * *

Castle Black held none of the glory its name might suggest, and Jon had smothered his disappointment at the sight of the place.

The Wall by comparison was far more majestic, high enough that it disappeared into the clouds, the top not visible from where he stood. Jon found himself agreeing with Daryn Hornwood’s words; whoever had built the wall meant to keep more than simple men out. Samwell had warned him, even when the boy had only picked several books for them to take to the maester at the Wall and refused to speak more. There was more going on here, something Jon feared they were perhaps not prepared to handle.

It had been the night he arrived at Castle Black that the dreams began. Not of the crypts; those had lessened in urgency, though the unending fear when he reached the bowels had never left him.

These dreams were entirely different.

Always, there was a raven on the lowest branch of a weirwood, one with three eyes that left Jon unnerved. “North!” it would caw; always North, always within the grove of weirwoods. It was a call for something, but Jon was wary of unknown dreams leading him on a chase. Dark things were stirring in the North, and as Jon woke from his dreams with his heart racing, he saw the odd unease mirrored in Ghost.

The meeting with the Lord Commander and the highest ranking officers of the Night’s Watch was today, and Jon swallowed his nerves as he was led to the Lord Commander’s solar.

“Can’t keep your wolf with you,” the man leading him, Edd - though his brother’s called him Dolorous Edd - insisted.

“Ghost is safe,” Jon said, but Edd remained firm, eyes wide and cautious as he warily eyed the large direwolf.

“Go on boy,” Jon said, eyes locked with Ghost’s. It was but a moment before the great white wolf trotted forward, giving Jon’s hand a rough kick before taking off to hunt.

“He’ll be fine,” Edd assured, though Jon was less worried for Ghost. They had bonded for near two years, and Jon oft felt as if the wolf was an extension of himself.

_Warg_, a dark voice whispered, and Jon ruthlessly pushed aside the dangerous thought.

“He’s a good hunter,” was all he said.

“Let’s hope he can keep his hunts dead,” Edd chuckled.

The man led him further into the keep, climbing the stairs of the Lord Commander’s Tower even as Jon puzzled over his words. It was beginning to take hold, a thought from the old stories,; they were myths, stories his lord father insisted were merely tall tales to scare children. A part of Jon argued against the thought, but fear and uncertainty held his tongue.

There were no guards outside Jeor Mormont’s door, and after a sharp knock Edd let him in.

There were seven men in the solar: the Lord Commander, Uncle Benjen, and old man Jon assumed was Maester Aemon - frail looking, as if a strong gust could knock him over, with a thin filmy look in his eyes that suggested blindness - and three others he had never met before. Lord Tyrion was already within, a cup of ale in his hands.

“This the boy Lord Stark sends?” An unfamiliar man sneered. “A bastard.” The disgust was oozing out of his tone, and Jon stiffened, clenching his hand slightly as he tried not to glower at him.

“Watch your mouth, Thorne,” Uncle Benjen snapped. “The boy is not one of your recruits to beat down.”

“Aye, not now I suppose, not yet. Seems Lord Stark’s found some use for him,” Thorne said. His dark eyes glittered with something dark - almost like hatred - and Jon knew this one would not take him seriously.

_And I’m to make a brother of him_, he thought sourly. Thoughts of joining this glorious brotherhood were no longer as pressing the more Jon saw of the Watch, but he knew they needed men.

“Lord Commander,” he greeted, ignoring the other man.

“Jon Snow,” Jeor said. “Aye, you’ve the look of your father. Sit.”

Jon took the open seat next to Tyrion Lannister, igniting the dwarfs raised cup. Piss and ale, he’d called it, but still the man drank.

“This is Maester Aemon,” Jeor pointed out. “That there is Bowen Marsh, Alliser Thorne, and Othell Yarwyck; First Steward, Master-at-arms and First Builder.”

He had barely greeted the others before Tyrion was opening his mouth. “They want us to believe their stories of snarks and grumpkins,” he quipped.

“Not so much stories,” the strong voice of the maester cut in. “Certainly none of ours. These are tales as old as Westeros.”

“Aye, and still tales,” Jon pointed out. “I was sent here by my lord father to assess the threat of the Wildlings, in preparation for armed assistance from the North and the Crown.”

“Wildlings,” Thorne scoffed. “Don’t need much of an army for them lot.”

“Aren’t there a hundred thousand of them gathering?” Tyrion asked.

“Aye, and if we wait for the king to send assistance we might find ourselves overrun,” the Lord Commander answered. “This isn’t the same as a rebellion on the mainland, though we’ll have to fight them all the same.”

“The king will be sending men to the Wall soon enough,” Tyrion stated, a careless grin on his face.

“To take the black or help hold the Wall?” Marsh asked sceptically.

“Both, I would presume,” Tyrion quipped. “Don’t worry your heads over it. They won’t come without their own supply cart.”

“We’ve The Gift,” Marsh retorted.

“And the men to till the lands are not entirely settled,” Ion reminded him. “The other lords will be here within a moon turn,” Jon said. “Less, if they round up their farmers quick enough.”

The brothers exchanged looks, a stiff nod coming from the Steward and First Builder.

“Aye, sounds well enough I suppose,” Jeor said. “The men from Winterfell?”

“Will be coming after I’ve proven the need for swift action,” Jon said, determinedly ignoring the dark stare his uncle sent him. Benjen didn’t know what he was planning, and with Father in King’s Landing and Robb as acting lord, Jon knew he would not send a raven to confirm his words.

“Proven?” Thorne echoed.

“Aye. I’ll need to know exact numbers to report back, both from the Wall and those of the Wildlinrgs. Their locations, the last points of attack for raid parties.”

“And give them all to a bastard?” Thorne sneered.

“Give then to the brother of the Stark in Winterfell,” Jon replied coolly. “You are free to do those things yourself.”

There was a grin on Tyrion’s face, and Jon refused to be the one to break his stare. _Let him see I’m not one to be pushed around_, he thought.

“A sennight,” Jeor offered. “That gives us time to send the ravens between here, Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and the Shadow Tower. Will that be enough for your brother?”

“That should give him enough time to come north with the rest of the lords,” Jon agreed.

“Lord Tyrion?”

“A fortnight, at the least. The royal party requires some time to make it to King’s Landing, my lords,” he said. “It’s quite the journey from Winterfell.”

They broke soon after, the brothers returning to their duties.

“I know what you’re doing,” Uncle Benjen told him as they made their way to Jon’s quarters. “A fool’s errand.”

“An order by the acting lord,” Jon countered. “I’ve guards with me from Winterfell; six men that Father has insisted I take.”

“This isn’t a hunt for glory, Jon,” Benjen pressed, a hand holding tightly to Jon’s arm. “You would need a ranger to go with you, and we’ve not had any rankings in the last five moons. Not further than the Skirling Pass.”

“That’s why I must do it, Uncle,” Jon insisted. “What lord would take the Watch seriously unless they know what they are fighting against? Robb has given me his orders,” he fibbed, knowing his brother would see the wisdom behind it. “I am not here as a brother of the Watch but as a man of Winterfell.”

He waited quietly for Uncle Benjen to say something, though the silence was assuring. He’d not go against him - angry as he would be - and Jon needed to see what it was that brought fear into the eyes of men who had fought Wildlings near continuously for nigh on a year.

“You’ll not go with just your guards,” he finally said, hand raises to stop any protest from Jon. “They will not be enough; not for the dangers of a ranging, nor to convince the other men of the North. I am First Ranger, Jon. I know these lands better than most, you'll not gainsay me on this. They have to see it themselves. Who can we expect first?”

“Lords Umber and Karstark,” Jon answered. “Manderly, if he takes a crown ship to Eastwatch. Lord Bolton and Lord Glover both looked keen to have their men come early to The Gift.”

“Good. That’s good. Five lords who don’t always agree might be enough to convince the others,” Benjen nodded.

* * *

**Joffrey I:**

“Tuck your elbow closer,” he instructed, eyes watching his brother’s form.

Steffon had insisted on running his squire through his paces, his brother wanting to gauge just how well the boy learned, and they had put Tommen with him. The boys were close enough in age, and their skill sets were similar, though Tommen proved the better archer.

“Widen your step,” he barked at Bran, nudging Tommen’s feet closer together. “You’re not wielding a bloody sword, Tommen. You have to be able to shoot an arrow from any stance. Use your back.”

“I think you’ve scared the crows off Joff,” Steffon quipped.

Hiding his pleasure at Steffon’s words, he retorted, “I’ve seen birds shit with better accuracy.”

“No need to be so foul, brother,” Steff chided. “There are delicate ears about.”

At the twang of the bow, Joffrey nodded in satisfaction, seeing both arrows land just off centre.

“Well done,” Steffon praised. “Now give me ten more like that and you can go for the day.”

Ignoring the groans from the two, Joffrey pondered over the oddness of their journey south.

Steffon had been visibly relieved when they had left the North; his face, though impassive to those who did not know him, had shown a hint of unease, one that kept Joffrey up in worry. Steffon rarely looked as terrible as he did, the dark circles a mark of the lack of sleep his brother had. Mother had noticed, and Joff knew it was only by the skin of his teeth that Steff managed to avoid the interrogation the queen would no doubt put him under.

Had the unease been the only thing, Joffrey would have written it off as concern over the reports from the Northerners. But Steff has looked so utterly relieved once they had crossed into the Riverlands. Even now, where they stood in the yard at Castle Darry, Joff had noticed a burden fall away from his brother, the prince more eager to interact with the rest of their party.

“I can practically hear your thoughts, Joff,” Steffon murmured, eyes focused on the two boys. “What ails you, brother?”

“You’ve not been yourself,” he said lowly, wary of listening ears. “Even Father has noticed, and the man has looked at little else besides his friend since we left Winterfell.”

“Even before that,” Steff quipped, a dark grin on his face.

"Nor have you been _attentive_ to your betrothed, much as you might wish it had not been promised," Joff continued.

"I'm fine," Steff told him. "Glad to finally be somewhere more warm."

Scowling, Joff turned his attention to the two boys, each attempting to beat their last arrow.

It was an inconvenience that they did not need - this thing that was bothering Steffon. Joff had spent his entire life in his brother’s shadow; less the servant and more Stef’s willing accomplice. That someone had managed to kill Jon Arryn was worrying enough. That the Lord Hand had been looking into Father’s bastards was alarming. That Steffon insisted on keeping his worries to himself when there was a sword hanging over their necks was leaving him in knots.

“Joff,” Steffon called lowly. “Joffrey.”

Pursing his lips in dissatisfaction - Hods, Arya can shoot better than them, he thought - Joff replied with a curt, “I need to lie down for a bit.”

Without waiting for an answer, Joffrey strode to the inside of the castle, Ser Arys falling into step beside him as he made his way to the rooms he had been given.

To his surprise, Steffon had come to his rooms an hour later, though all Joff had done was work himself up into a fury. A part of him had hoped Steffon would wait longer, that he might have time to cool his anger as Ser Barristan had drilled him, but Joffrey was well over his limit.

His brother must have seen the dark look in his eyes for he stuck his head out, ordering the Kingsguard to remain at the entrance to their hall.

"Joffrey," Steffon began, though Joff ignored him as he paced the length of his room, trying and failing to calm himself.

_A Lannister bastard with the fury of a Baratheon._ The irony might have made him laugh on any other day, but all it did now was fuel his emotions.

“Talk to me Joff,” he pleaded.

“Like you talk to me?” Joffrey scoffed, resisting the urge to kick something.

“Is that what this is about?” Steffon demanded. "That I haven't told you _I am fine_ for the last fortnight?"

“Yes,” he hissed, conscious of the need to keep quiet. “Yes that’s what this is about.”

“I’ve been having trouble sleeping,” Steffon said coolly. “I did not think you my minder to be made aware of every change in habits.”

“Don’t pin this on me,” Joff warned. “Don’t you dare.”

“If my silence is botheri—”

“Your silence can get us killed,” he nearly shouted. A vicious feel of pleasure shot through him at the shocked look on his brother’s face. “Did you perhaps forget, while you were stuck in your head for the last moon, that there are countless people who wish us dead? That we do not know what has been happening while we were busy playing at knights? _That every single day you allow yourself to drift off into your _mind_ is a day lost preparing for any threats_.”

“I’ve never forgotten the dangers of our position,” Steff retorted.

“No. Mayhaps, you’ve merely underestimated it because it’s not _your_ head on the line,” Joff snapped, his heart racing in fear and panic and a surge of rage at his brother, at his oblivious father, at the entire mess their mother had brought them because she had to cuckhold the bloody king. “It’s my life in danger; mine and Cella’s and Tom. You’re safe as Father’s heir.”

“Do you think I would ever let anyone harm you?” Steffon demanded. “That it would be safe for me to keep such a secret? I’d drag the entire kingdoms into war if they thought to harm you three.”

“How am I to know what you think? You never speak anymore,” Joffrey sneered.

“Because I’m bloody scared,” Steffon hissed, eyes wild and vulnerable. Joff felt his eyes widen in surprise, the admission entirely unexpected. “Because I’m the damned heir to a throne people would gladly murder me for. That I’ve to worry about who wants to harm you enough that they’ve killed Jon Arryn and now the entire North is in danger and Father pushes them to the edge of revolt. That there is _something_ calling me North that I must consider when we've a war brewing in the South. Forgive me if I’ve had a little too much on my mind and thought not to burden you.”

Steffon turned abruptly to the hearth, stepping away from Joff as he struggled to compose himself.

In all his life, Joffrey had never thought to see his brother admit to fear. Steffon had been the perfect heir; older, smarter, a fierce warrior and someone who did what their father refused to do. He had moulded himself after him, admiring the calm manner with which he handled any bits of chaos, whether from the council or their parent’s disastrous decisions. That Steffon so openly feared the situation they found themselves in shot a lance of terror through him.

“Dragons to the east; Wildlings to the north; Uncle Stannis has been gone since before we returned and an enemy somewhere in our house holding a knife to our balls,” Steff said quietly. “Who do we face when we don’t know where the next strike comes from?”

“Father is focusing on the Targaryens,” Joff said.

“Father is focusing on what father wants,” Steff scoffed. “He’s always been like that, and like to get worse with Ned Stark with him. Send too many men north and we offer the Targaryens an advantage. Send too little and either the North revolts or is overrun.”

“Steffon,” he said. “You can't do this alone. You've _never_ done this alone. Let me help you brother.”

“You’ve already done enough,” Steff said, though there was a sense of hesitation that Joffrey pounced on.

“Not nearly. We swore there would be no secrets between us,” he reminded him.

Joff waited with bated breath as his brother struggled to come to a decision. It was doing little to lessen his alarm, and he had to hide his expression of relief as Steff finally beckoned him closer.

“I’ve been having dreams,” Steffon started, a slightly odd note in his tone. “Since my fifth nameday. Dreams of a creature of ice and his soldiers, an army of dead gathered behind them.”

He would have scoffed at the notion, claiming the Northerners had managed to frighten his brother; but Joff has seen Steff wake at odd hours during their childhood, remembered days when he looked as if he had slept little, saw the slight sheen of terror lurking in his eyes.

“Do you remember, the comet?”

“Rather hard to forget as it's currently above our heads,” he said lightly, something like dread churning in his stomach.

Steffon had a tired smile on his face, his right hand outstretched toward the fire as his left shot forward to cover Joff’s mouth; a good precaution, as he almost failed to clamp down on the scream that nearly escaped him, staring at Steffon in horrified wonder.

“Y-yo-you...Father will kill you,” he whispered, knowing his words to be true.

There was a small flame resting in the palm of Steffon’s hand, the light casting shadows on his face. There was no expression of pain, nothing to suggest that his brother felt something. Suddenly, Joff was reminded of the stories Uncle Tyrion would tell them when they visited the Rock, late at night when the rest of the household was asleep and his father not around to see his sons learn of his most hated relations.

“They say the comet means dragons,” he recalled. “That dragons could only exist in a world—”

“—of magic,” they finished.

“A Valyrian trait,” Steff laughed, a dark cast to his features. "A Valyrian talent from the Targaryen grandmother to his heir."

_Something he would be killed for_, they both knew. Robert Baratheon might love his sons, but his hatred of his Valyrian ancestors was all that kept the man breathing on some days - reminding him of one of the few victories he seemed to gain.

"The Others," Steff whispered. "That's what I've been dreaming of. Others, and a raven calling me North, and the wars to come that tear Westeros apart."

He looked utterly exhausted, the fire no longer burning above his hand. When he glanced at it, Joff saw smooth unblemished skin. Steffon threw himself onto Joff's desk chair, a deep look thought etched onto his face, green eyes glittering with untold emotions.

“Steffon?”

“The last thing we need is an army of dead coming south - not when we don’t know the danger we’re walking into,” Steffon said quietly. “No harbringers of doom and magic at a time like this.”

“Let the Wall keep them,” Joffrey said. He couldn’t fathom the idea of the Others. Not when they had been mythical tales for so long. But dragons had been spoken of as if myth, and Joff knew his brother’s new abilities were the stuff of legends. Things that had only been seen in the age of heroes.

“I intend to send men to man it, at least until we know the whereabouts of the Targaryens.”

A small part of Joffrey wanted to disbelieve the idea of the Long Night returning; they were stories of an age of darkness, an entire generation born in darkness from what he had been told. But Steffon had never lied to him, and Joff had every faith in his brother.

“We’ve a game to play,” he grimaced, the look on his face echoed on Steffon’s.

Their world had just become more dangerous; but Joffrey too had sworn an oath to protect his family at all costs, something he was to know he was not alone in.

* * *

He wheeled his horse closer to his brother’s betrothed, a charming smile plastered on his face as he made to ride next to her.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Joff told her. “It seems my brother has gone ahead to greet Ser Barristan. I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Prince Joffrey,” she said, every inch the courteous lady. “I’m certain Prince Steffon is rather busy.”

Smiling, Joffrey tilted his head to the path that lay ahead of them. “Would you care to join me in surprising them?” He asked with a mischievous grin. “Ser Barristan was my knightly master, and I’d be glad to see him.”

She flushed slightly, whispering from her friend encouraging her before she nodded, a smile on her face.

A small bit of disgust crawled through him; Sansa Stark was a sweet girl and would have made a good lady for some lucky lord. But Steffon was his brother; was the heir in a time when it was dangerous to be such, and the last thing the heir to the Iron Throne needed was a sweetly naive girl as his queen.

That she would instead be saddled with a bastard masquerading as a prince - and not the prince who would make her a queen at that - was something he found difficut to swallow.

“I’ve heard there’s to be a tourney in honour of your knighting,” she said.

“A tourney to celebrate many things, I’d imagine,” Joff chuckled, “though Father insists on glorying in martial accomplishments.”

“The King must be very proud, to have his sons knighted so young,” she stated.

“He was,” Joff told her.

It was odd; Father was mostly absent for many things, but the man had taken Joff aside before their departure to congratulate him. He had not expected it, what with the death of Lord Arryn, but Joffrey has been pleasantly surprised to hear how very proud Robert Baratheon was of his accomplishments.

“Will this be your first tourney?” He asked, steering them along the Kingsroad. They were near Stokeworth, where Steffon had ridden ahead to greet Ser Barristan and the honour guard he brought with him.

“It is,” she told him, her eyes showing pleasure at the thought. “We don’t have tourneys in the North.”

His horse grew skittish, his hand shooting out to soothe it as Joff saw Lady bound closer to them. The three direwolves had grown slightly bigger during their travels. Mother had wanted them chained, he knew, but they were more than mindless beasts. That they approved of his children had endeared them to Father, even if he thought the Starks mad to keep them as pets.

“It’s fine,” he said, seeing her open her mouth to most likely apologize. “Padfoot's spent enough time around Ghost to know better.”

There was a slight twitch in Sansa’s features, a flash of discomfort that she quickly hid.

He felt his mood plummeting at the sight of that look, a feeling of loathing nearly overwhelming him as he recognized her feelings regarding her brother.

He had mistakenly thought the Northerners to be different, but their upbringing with a Septa had made Sansa into a perfect Southron lady, disdain for bastards and all.

They rode in silence to Stokeworth, Joff stewing in his anger and loathing.

“Have I said something to upset you, my prince?” She asked tentatively.

Swallowing his anger, Joff stiffly replied, “Not at all, Lady Sansa.”

Her wolf eyed him warily, perhaps sending the upset he had caused her mistress, and Joff breathed deeply to calm himself. “Forgive me, my lady. I’ve been on the road away from home for many moons. It wears on the mind after so long.”

“Of course, Prince Joffrey,” she smiled. “Perhaps we should join the others? The Queen has invited me to join her in her wheelhouse.”

“There’s no need for that, Lady Sansa,” he said hurriedly, knowing what his Mother might be up to. The woman had made her displeasure with the betrothal known, though how she expected Steffon to remain unmarried he had no idea. _Nor why she thinks to hold such sway over him_. “We are near enough to Stokeworth. It is just around the bend.”

He was right, of course; Joff had travelled these very lands with Steffon years ago in a bid to secure their hold of the Crownlands. Castle Stokeworth came into view, the large holdfast strong as a diverting point for the royal family should King’s Landing find itself under threat. Outside were countless guards, each calling out their greetings as Joffrey made his way into the courtyard.

To his relief, Steffon was just inside, stood next to Ser Barristan as the two spoke. From the corner of his eye he saw Renly, his former squire hovering in his shadow as the man spoke at length with the castellan.

“Joff!” called Steff, a slightly raised brow showing his surprise at Sansa’s presence.

Joffrey let a groom take the reins from him, shooting forward to help Lady Sansa down from her palfrey.

“Nephew,” Renly spoke, a slight grin on his handsome face as he made his way to them. “And who is this lovely lady?”

“Uncle Renly, might I introduce the Lady Sansa Stark. Lady Sansa, my uncle, Renly Baratheon.”

“Well met, my lord,” she curtsied, and Joff hid a scowl as he saw her dart a glance to Ser Loras, pink staining her cheeks as the handsome Reachman bowed gallantly as Renly introduced them.

Renly’s ever present teasing grin was on his face as he glanced between them, noting where Steffon was currently making his way over. Plans were being reconfigured in Renly’s mind, he knew, and Joff made note to keep an eye on Renly and his ambitious _friends_, knowing Loras would report to his family.

_The things we do for love_, he thought darkly.

“Lady Sansa,” Steffon greeted, a light kiss pressed to her knuckles as he spoke quietly to her.

“Prince Joffrey,” Barristan greeted, and Joff had a sincere smile as he clasped hands with the older knight.

“Ser Barristan,” Joff greeted. “I’ve come to see your squire returned to you.”

“In good shape, I hope?”

“No less than he was when we made for the North,” Joff chuckled.

Steffon was bringing Sansa forward to introduce her to Barristan, and Joff swept his eyes across his uncle once more.

Father would be here soon, he knew, and they would continue to ride to King’s Landing. Renly was here; Stannis was not. It was all beginning to converge together, and now Joff had the additional worry of an army of dead headed straight to the Wall.

_I need to find a way to warn Jon_, he thought, worry churning his gut at the thought of what possibly awaited him at the Wall, though how he would manage to do that without revealing Steffon’s dreams and new abilities was beyond him.

For now, they would work on King’s Landing, and the games of people hoping to topple them for a taste of power.

_It’s so wonderful to be home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping to get chapter 5 out on time! I'm travelling currently, and staying somewhere with very spotty internet service, so, yeah.


	5. Hiatus

Hey all,

I'm really sad I'm going to have to do this after a long period of silence, but as of now Black Lion, Golden Stag will be going on hiatus. It sucks that this has to happen, but unfortunately I've not been happy with the trajectory of this story for some time. I've managed to write myself into a knot _and_ a corner (a tangled corner?) somewhere in what would have been (ideally) the middle of the story, and it has been difficult getting out of it.

It's going to take some time and energy to sit and reconfigure this entire thing. Storm Prince was rewritten through several drafts section by section, and this one unfortunately doesn't quite hit the same flow as it's prequel nor is the plot as character-motivated as I would have liked, which happens. I'm not sure when it'll be rewritten - have to find some time to specifically rework these many threads - but it's a pretty large-scale story for me and one I am determined to return to.

I'd just like to thank you guys for going through this journey with me. It's been amazing to hear your thoughts both on this and Storm Prince, and utterly baffling to see so many people enjoy it. I've got other projects, personal and fanfic, that'll take my time and hopefully taking a step back will allow me to return to it with a better idea of where it was leading to. I'll keep what I've written so far online and only remove it once I am ready to upload the new version.

Cheers.


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